


The Act

by Keepers_key



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Blood and Violence, Bottom John, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gender Issues, Intersex, Intersex John, M/M, Master/Servant, Mpreg, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prince Sherlock, Sexual Shaming, Slow Build, Some spicy time, Top Sherlock, gender shaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28584165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keepers_key/pseuds/Keepers_key
Summary: John Watson was born into a world where being intersex was considered a sin and where King Siger Holmes demands those discovered to be immediately killed. As John ages, he becomes the boy servant to a young Sherlock Holmes and struggles to keep his intersex identity a secret as his body tries to give him away any chance it gets.Sometimes we all must put up an act to protect ourselves.
Relationships: Carl Powers/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 49
Kudos: 90





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read this fic!  
> This story is based in Medieval times, however, some aspects of the timeline may be wrong. I'm not a history buff, so I'm trying to research as I go along. Also, I just want to make it clear that the characters aren't going to be fully canon in this book. They do have to stray some from the original characters to fit the story and help it along. I do try to keep them as canon as I can though.  
> (If any of you are interested in contacting me for a commission or just to chat my tumblr is under the name keeperskey)  
> Enjoy!  
> \- K

Intersex: A general term used for a variety of conditions in which a person is born with a reproductive or sexual anatomy that does not seem to fit the typical definitions of female or male. As in, someone who is born with both sexual organs.

That was who was born into the Watson family on a cool night deep into December. The frost bit into the air that night, running deep into the lungs of Mrs. Watson, who holds her newborn son close to her chest. She cries. She cries from sheer happiness, having given birth to a healthy baby boy. She cries, knowing this baby boy is a sin to have, to hold, to call her own. In this world, anyone born intersex is almost instantly killed or taken by the king, unless you have a great way of hiding it. Which most do not. Most women have midwife nurses who, by contract, must report all intersex births to the authorities. As quickly as that baby is born, that baby is taken and done away with – never to be seen again. John barely has uttered his first cries, breathed his first breaths and he is already labeled a monster, a tempter, nothing more than a witch in disguise.

“John,” his mother pants, wiping the amniotic fluids off his cheeks with the hem of her skirt. “My sweet boy. I will protect you. My sweet, sweet John.” Her promise runs over deaf ears, only herself and her baby to hear.

She wrapped him up in her apron and carried him to the sitting room of her small cabin, crouching in front of the lit fire to get the child warm. She swaddled him in the fabric, taking care to place his hands inside and tuck them away securely. She rushed away, gathering what she needed to clean her child, and after which, she fed him. Skin to skin they rest in the sitting room as John takes in his first meal from his mother. His eyelids are glossed over with tears, shimmering with the flicker of the fire beside them. He looks up at her with a soft gaze, grunting with every needy suckle. Mrs. Watson runs her thumb over his cheek and takes a deep breath, a desperate sigh. How on this earth will she protect him? She has nothing and knows nothing about the intersex. Besides the fact they are viewed as temptresses, as demons in human form. But how? How could this blue-eyed innocent child be any more than an angel?

“I’ll protect you,” she promised again, her voice a whisper being carried away in the night.

It was an empty promise. One she could not even believe herself. She could not help but feel the hot burn of panic building in her chest, as hot as the fire blazing beside them. She knew what lay in her arms, what he would be labeled as. What she had been told by all those in town – the intersex are dangerous.

**____**

“I hear Paula’s boy was taken from her as soon as she delivered,” Carol told Mrs. Watson as they shopped for home goods in the towns outdoor market. “Heard him intersex. A devil’s child.” She crunched her nose tighter in thought as she picked up a head of broccoli to examine.

“What’s so wrong with that?” Mrs. Watson questioned, brows knitting together as she turned to glance at the women beside her. Her eyes were met with a shocked expression from Carol.

“Do you not know what intersex is? Why the King has banned anyone born intersex?” She places the broccoli down to draw her full attention to the blonde women next to her. Her question was met with a quick no from Mrs. Watson before she continues, “It’s when someone is born with both female and male…” she bends in to whisper, “…genitals. I’ve been told that once they get older, they admit a certain smell that drives any man insane.”

Mrs. Watson’s brow lifts as she listens, only halfheartedly believing anything Carol is saying. Carol does like to tell stories after all. She draws her eyes away from Carol and continues to browse the vegetables all skillfully placed in baskets on the tables ahead of her. One hand skimming the heads of corn, the other tucked under her now six-month pregnant belly.

“Like a pheromone,” Carol continues, knowing full well Mrs. Watson is only barely listening. “When they come of age, any man can smell this pheromone. It makes them lose their minds. It drives them to want only one thing from the intersex person – to breed.” The last word comes out quieter than before, barely a whisper, she was ashamed to say it. But to be fair, it's taboo to speak of sex out loud, let alone on the public market. But Carol was anything but shy with what she thinks.

“That's why the King has them hung when they are discovered. They are tempters. They can lure any man to their doom just by being in their presence. It's dangerous to have them around. The king loves his people, so that's why he has them banned. You better hope your little one isn't one of them. I hope for you that it isn’t….” She continued to talk, but Mrs. Watson has tuned her out. She didnt quite believe the nonsense of the story, but she still found herself clutching her stomach, fingers tight, over the baby who was growing.

It was months years later when Mrs. Watson saw with her own eyes an intersex woman be hung on a branch of the oak tree in the square, that she started to believe Carol. The woman was confident, laughing the whole way to the noose that waited, like bait for a fish, bobbing in the spring breeze. The men in the crowd gathering were ushered away promptly by the King’s guards (whom were all female) and into the security of their homes. While just for the brief time she was there, she got to some of the men and they were falling over themselves to get to her. She wielded a power Mrs. Watson had never known, just from being around these men, she had all on their knees. This scared Mrs. Watson. The dread that this one person rose in her heart, in her throat. This was a witch. A temptress in the flesh. The woman knew too, for even as the noose was secured around her neck she laughed and held a hand out to the men crawling to get even a foot beside her. Mrs. Watson ran from the square and never once looked back, only followed by the crowd screaming in pleasure as the noose took its next victim.

____

Mrs. Watson raised a strong boy, handsome and smart. He looked so much like his father, bright blonde, soft caring blue eyes and a smile to match. Even at the age of six he would help his mother around the home, parading around with a glow of a smile on his face. Mrs. Watson beamed; she could not have been prouder of the boy she had delivered those years ago. He had no idea he was different, that he could so easily be turned on, be hated….be hanged. He played with the neighbor kids, laughed like them. He raced and played make believe and made mud pies - like them. He beside them, acting just like them, yet he was so separate to them, so much more.

____

The king’s men came to her cabin on a June day, when the flowers outside just started to bloom and give off the strong scent of Hydrangea and moisture from the rain the previous night. Their boots trampled down John’s newly made mud castles in the cobblestone walkway to their home. The knock was loud, shaking the door and echoing into the backyard where Mrs. Watson hung laundry. She opened the door and greeted the men with a crooked smile, fighting off the confusion that attempted to slip over her face.

“May I help you?” She kindly asks, wiping her hands dry on her apron.

“Yes,” The guard nods, “You have a son here, do you not? Approaching his seventh birthday?”

Mrs. Watson swallowed down the thick lump of panic that instantly rose in her throat. What could they want with John? Her John. She hid her panic with a charmed smile, placing her hand on the edge of the door, attempting to make a protective barrier between them and her child in the backyard.

“Yes, he will be seven in December,” She breathes, “it's months away but he already acts it,” She gives them a soft laugh, attempting to break the tension that sits between them. Her laugh is ignored.

“King Siger has asked that all young boys, as they hit their seventh birthday, be brought to him. He is in a desperate need for more men, such that can be raised to one day become soldiers.” He hands Mrs. Watson a piece of paper, outlining the contract she must sign, to sign away her boy. “We must take him with us when his birthday arrives in December. Please sign this contract,” he pushes it closer to her.

She could not believe it. They wanted to take her boy? She glanced down at the linin fiber paper waiting for her, but she could not manage to take it. How could she sign her boy away like that? To be taken to a Palace she had not done more than looked at from a distance? She knew nothing of the King, only that he governed her small village. How could she give him her son?

“Please Miss,” The man cut through her droning mind with a silver sharp voice. “We must continue on our way. Please sign here so we can pass on to the next home, we are commanded to be back by sundown.”

“I….” her mouth was dry, she could hear John’s squeals of delight as he played in the backyard, only him and his imagination running wild together. “I don’t know if I can, he is all I have.” She could not help the desperation in her voice.

“You have not a choice. The King demands of it. If you are not to sign it, we will take him without your given permission, and you will be placed in imprisonment for going against the King’s rules.” He shakes the paper at her swiftly. “If you do sign it, we guarantee his safety, and you may visit him on occasion.”

Her hands sweat. Her ears pound as the blood draining from her heart rushes all over her body. She could not speak. How could they guarantee his safety? They do not know who he will become. Who he is. With no choice, she takes the paper and signs it, handing it back to the man who swiftly mounts his horse and rides to the next home without another thought. But she was crushed. There goes her boy….and her promise of security.


	2. Berries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the love on the prelude.  
> I will try to upload a chapter as often as I can, but I have a family, full time job and a business of my own on the side so it may take days between to update.  
> Enjoy nonetheless!  
> \- K

John perches his cheek against his palm, closing his eyes for only a second. Madam Merriam explains the importance of combining the yeast exactly right in a sugar and flour mixture to make the perfect loaf of bread that the whole kingdom will talk about. She adds a handful of yeast to the wooden bowl in front of her on the table and babbles on about the importance bread had on the kingdom when they went through a large famine in 1402. He listens, but only barely. What use is it to him how to make bread? He is but a Page Boy; he does not make any meals or foods. He oversees the King’s son, the one to inherit the throne one day, Sherlock Holmes. He takes great pride in his job, though the prince is anything but polite. His mother always taught him to work hard, so he does, for her.

He opens his eyes, squinting at the afternoon sun shining into them from the open window above him. He can see the garden from where he sits, where Sarah and Sally gather fruits for tonight’s supper. Sarah plucks the blueberries one by one, placing them in a basket next to her. They will likely be used for a pie or a cobbler, though one of Sherlock’s favorite meals is Lamb with jam. Usually its mint jam, but he prefers the sweetness of a fruit jam to accent the gamey taste of the lamb. John knows too much of Sherlock Holmes and his preferences, his wants, his needs.

John’s thoughts wonder to his mother, where was she now? Was she okay? Did she still live in the little cabin next to the woods? The home he would play late into the night at with no worries, no fears. He had not seen any of his mother since the day he was taken from his home, that was nearly six years ago now. That horrific day when his world shattered. His mother was all he’d known, all the trusted and loved and within minutes he was grabbed and thrown into a carriage with barely a goodbye to the sobbing women he called his mum. John now neared his thirteenth birthday, having to celebrate it in this castle, under the watch of the king and his two prestigious sons. John also knew it could happen any time now – his period. That is what he lived in fear of, that is what he was told so much about. The moment that made him more than a boy, he was then a dangerous subject, wielding powers he did not understand.

____

It was the beginning of November when John’s mum collected him up to take a journey together. She only had weeks left until the King’s men take him from her, and she wanted to be sure he could stay protected on his own as the years come along. It was a witch, practicing in dark magic. She was all knowing, of every kind. She would know what John could do to slip unnoticed.

“Casper berries,” Her feeble voice creeped around Mrs. Watson like a snake on a branch. “Crushed, raw, dried, it doesn’t matter how they are ingested, but they will mask the pheromones one secretes during their menstrual period.” She holds out a slender hand, opening Mrs. Watson’s hand and dropping the berries inside.

“They can be hard to find, mostly in forests growing wild. You must teach him how to find them on his own if he is to survive.” She sits back in her wooden chair, which was obviously made by whittling some old branches down. “He needn’t take them always, only on the days he is about to or does bleed from his menstrual flow, that’s when the pheromones are the strongest. That’s when he will be caught.”

Mrs. Watson opens her fingers to gaze down at the berries resting in her palm. Bright and red, like mini pomegranates. She takes a quick look over to John who is next to her, playing with a wooden duck the women carved out from a cedar tree. John’s mum thanked the women with haste and rushed John from the home, eager to get him home and teach him of the berries before it was too late. In payment for this knowledge, Mrs. Watson paid a high price - the rights to her home. It was no longer hers to have, to live in. But that does not matter as now she has the soothing thought that her boy would be okay, and that is all she ever wanted.

____

John rubs his lips together, sucking them between his teeth and biting gently. He remembers that day like it was only yesterday. The day his mother sold her soul, her livelihood, for some berries. His hand clenches with knuckles white, why would she do that? He continues to watch the girls outside, plucking berries without a thought or worry. One day John will be that carefree. Or so he hoped. It could be any day now that he starts his period and he had to be ready. Even his own prince would leap on him as some sort of animal a prize slab of meat. Which would totally be out of Sherlock’s character, as he has not done more than glance at John for years. Sherlock was one to keep to himself, occasionally asking John to fetch him a quill to write, or a piece of clothing from the linin room downstairs. He has only rarely gone into conversation with John, at least recently. John and he used to be good friends when John first arrived at the castle. They would play in the pastures together, grooming the horses and telling spooky tales to one another as they did. They would travel out to the back fields where wild honeysuckle grew on the banks of the streams branching off the nearby lake like veins in an arm. They would sit for hours and fish, or swim, enjoying each other’s presence and laughing in the innocence of it all. Now Sherlock is too busy to think about those times. John is nothing but a stranger to him at this point, a slave, a mere nothing.

“John!” Madam Merriam’s sudden burst snaps John to attention and he looks to his teacher, blinking. “You aren’t paying me any attention, are you? Do you want to grow up a fool?” Her voice was sharp and raspy, like a ghost rose in the night and snatched it away.

“I’m sorry, I’m listening madam,” He was too polite to tell her otherwise.

“If you want to just sit there and daydream, you can go to King Siger and tell him about your daydreams and see if he’d like to know his Son’s Page Boy has other things on his mind than focusing on his classes,” She barked, crossing her arms over the ghastly brown smock she wore.

John smiles politely at his teacher and folds his fingers together in his lap. “I’m listening,” He assures her, though he has always been a bad liar. And by her expression, she does not believe his lies.

His classes end over an hour later and John exits the room with the other kids around his age including a young man named Carl, the stableboy. He was nearly three years older than John, fifteen to be exact. What is it like being a teenager?

“Have a good day, ey then Watson?” Carl nudges John playfully in the ribs, giving him one of those award-winning smiles. God he was handsome. It made John’s heart burn with what could only be described as a lightening.

“Here,” John calls to the brunette as he rushes ahead of him. “Can you give these to Misty? I snuck them from the kitchen,” He hands Carl some slices of carrots he had tucked away in his pocket. He knew he could get Carl to talk to him if he made an excuse to bring up Carl’s favorite horse – Misty. He would like the gesture. And oh, did he like it, for his face lit up with a bright white smile, dimples digging deep into his cheeks.

“Oh Watson, Misty loves carrots, how’d you know?” John fights back the blush rushing to his cheeks.

_Because you've told me. I remember what you tell me._

“She always eats them when I sneak them to her after afternoon brunches with the Prince. He doesn’t much like the carrots in his meals, so I sneak them before the maid catches the plate and take them to Misty,” John explains, stammering only once over his words.

Carl shoves the carrots into the pockets of his trousers, breathing out a quick thanks to John before winking at him and sprinting away to the stables. He winked at him. The audacity. He knew what he was doing.

John sighed and continued on, greeting Sally and Sarah with a quick wave hello before he disappears into the castle and up to Sherlock’s study. His tutor was there around this time, teaching Sherlock of headship arrangements and laws and such, all the things he must know in order to take the throne one day. John enters the room with a gentle knock of the door, Sherlock does not bother to welcome him in, so the tutor grants him passage with a kind hello. Sherlock wore blue today, what a fitting color for him. He had always been a pale bloke, white and milky and scrawny. His dark hair contrasted so well against the softness of his skin, brightening up his features, like those deep blue eyes.

John takes his place beside Sherlock’s desk, arms folded behind his back. He knew not to stand too close, as it ‘messes up Sherlock’s concentration’, as Sherlock says. So, he stays plenty away, glancing over to the boy who looked so much older than he was, though he was only two years older than John. What is it like to be a teenager?

“Take this to the linin room and have it washed,” Sherlock’s voice cuts John’s thoughts in half like a knife through Sunday ham. He holds his waistcoat out to John, not even bothering to look up from his paper as he does. “I’ve spilled on it at brunch, it’s indecent to wear it about, so have it cleaned and ready for me by morning tomorrow.” He kept taking notes.

Typical Sherlock. No thank you, no please, just do. John took Sherlock’s waistcoat without a hesitation and nodded his goodbye to both men before exiting the room. He had wished Sherlock would go back to his silly, kind, quirky self he had been as a child, but that Sherlock is long gone. John sighed and moved down to the linin room, going about this day like any other – a slave to Sherlock’s wishes. Little did he know, the next day would lead him closer to the time he had always dreaded, the time that would make him a demon, a tempter, a witch….


	3. Starting

It was early in the morning, before the guards relieved the night watch from their duties. Before the maids bustled about in the halls. Before breakfast started to be prepared for the king and his sons. The sun hadn’t yet rose in the sky, it was quiet, everything asleep, everything but John. He was awoken by a sudden burst of pain starting in the pit of his stomach and rushing up his spine, making his head tingle. He blinks in the morning darkness before throwing off his blanket and sitting up silently, as to not make a sound and wake Sherlock who slept peacefully beside him in his queen-sized bed. John would normally take this time to turn and watch Sherlock sleep. He was so peaceful and innocent then. His face for once wasn’t harsh as it normally was during the day when he went about his duties. It was soft, kind, gentle. John loved to see that side of Sherlock, even if only while he slept.

But today was not the day to lay around, the pain in his stomach reached down deep into his core, rushing between his legs and pulsing. John gasped, sucking in a breath as he clutched his stomach. He’d never felt a pain like this before. He’d had his share of stomach viruses, of muscle aches. But he’d never felt anything like this before.

He stood briskly and wrapped his tunic around himself before rushing for the door. He couldn’t make a scene of himself, so, as he entered the hallway, he calmly sauntered to the doors exiting outside. He wasn’t calm though and he’d hoped the maids who were awake and walking the halls didn’t notice the panic rising in his features. He nodded respectfully as the maids respectfully, even offering them a brief smile. Once he reached the door he flew to the nearby woods, not looking back to see if anyone was watching him. The grass below his naked feet was cold, wet with morning dew. He had to dig his toes into the dirt just to keep his footing, so he didn’t slide over the moisture clinging to every blade.

His breath shook in his chest, his heart rattling his bones. Another quick pain surged through him and knocked him to the ground, burring his face into the dirt below. He pulsed, a thrumming rhythm drawing out every breath, sucking out his life. He quickly gathered his footing once the pain subsided and kept running, past trees and bushes that came in the way. He was running all out of memory as it still was dark outside. It was so peaceful this time of day, not even the birds awake to welcome in the morning. But it wasn’t peaceful for John, he was running for his life. He knew if he stayed anywhere close to men, he would be attacked, or worse. He had to get away.

The next round of shockwaves hit John harder than ever, crumbling him to the ground once more. But this time he wasn’t getting up so quickly. He sweat all over, prickling at the hairs on his forehead and bolting down to his toes. He couldn’t breathe. Another pain, back to back, rocked his body and he clamped his hand over his mouth, biting at his palm, muffling the shrieks he’s admitting. This is a pain like no other. A hot, slick, rushing pain. A pain that ignites every inch of his skin, every drop of blood in his veins, down to the red marrow of his bones. He was writhing in need. A need he’d never felt. A tingle bursting forth between his legs, throbbed, robbing him of any thought but one thing – to be bred. He felt like an animal in heat, and really now he was. For his body was no longer his, it was his desire, his need, his want. A ripping pain surged between his legs and he shrieked into his palm, burring his nails into the muddy ground under him. A flow of liquid, hot and heavy and thick, rushed out from between his legs, staining the crotch of his trousers with bright red – blood. He’s officially started his period.

He swore he heard someone or something approach him as he lay there in a bed of molded leaves and sticks. He swore he smelled a familiar scent of laundry, cool and clean. His eyes glazed over with the pain, he couldn’t see the hand in front of his face as it grazed over his forehead, wiping sweat from it. He jerks away, hissing at the touch. It burned, like a scorching coal placed against his temple. No relief at all, though that’s what the hand was attempting to apply.

“John?” the voice was a muffle, bouncing around in his ears, “John?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but his tongue was dry, brittle against his teeth. He replied with a soft whimper of pain.

“It's Molly, can you hear me?” Oh yes Molly. John was quite fond of her. He didn’t know her well, but she was always very kind. She was a housemaid; she took great pride on her work even being as young as she was – John’s age. What was she doing in the forest at this early time?

“I’m going to go get the nurse,” She only started to stand from John’s side before he grabbed her arm, stopping her.

“No,” he begged, his voice a low rasp. “Please, don’t.” he couldn’t manage more words than that.

She frowned at him and knelt back down beside him. If he could make sense of her face right now, he’d know she was more than worried. It showed all over her features.

“John, you need someone. You are sick,” Her voice was soothing, like honey on a wound.

“No,” he breathed, blinking harshly. His tears were hot and burned like lava smoke.

“John,” She sighed, but didn’t protest further and after that a quiet settled in between them.

The morning sun began to rise, sweeping over the land in a swift wave of orange and pink light. The birds awoke with the light, beginning their morning praises to the new day. Life continued. The maids drew water for baths, the blacksmith warmed his fires for the day, the stablemen entered the stables to tend to the horses. But John’s world spun, like a top on a glass table. Endless and quick. The sensations were only getting worse as the minutes passed, igniting every fiber if his body.

_Breed. Breed. Breed! Find someone and breed!_

The words echoed in his mind; his body spoke for him. The pulse between his legs continued in a deep throb. Every throb ushering out a splash of blood to accompany it.

As the sun rose more, Molly could really take in John. The sweat glistening over his brow, the dryness of his lips. His cheeks were pale, white and ghostly. She placed a hand over his forehead once more, checking his temperature. He was on fire, boiling from the inside out.

“Please,” John finally breathed, breaking the long silence that lay between them. “I need Casper Berries. Please find me some. Please Molly.”

She blinks at him, running her palm over his cheeks, wiping the sweat away. “Those are hard to find in these woods, John. You need more than some berries. You need medicine. If you’d just let me help you to the castle, Ruby can take good care of you.”

“No Molly, I need the berries.” He could now see her clearly after he was able to blink away the tears in his eyes.

Again, a silence lay over them as her soft doe eyes gaze down at him. They depart from his gaze to slip down his body, taking in his symptoms. Suddenly they stop, fixated, and now its her turn to drain white in the face. She sees it, the blood staining John’s trousers, right in the middle of his crotch. No mistaking it, no questions. All her concern is gone, now only fear. John is one of _those_? She was on her feet quicker than John could gather any words to explain. Even quicker still, she was running from him, leaving him in the awakening forest to writhe around in pain and need. This is it, surely she is on her way to go tell the king, and John will be beheaded by noon. He’s been caught, the monster of him exposed and open and raw, like a newly formed cut on his skin. Bleeding. Blood.

John fights through the pain, he must escape further into the woods, away from where Molly may bring the guards to find him. He ran, no recognition of where he was or where he was going. He stumbled over rocks and branches, they press against the soles of his feet, ridged edges slicing into the thick skin. Before he knew it, he was knocked down again by another blow of pain pulsing in his body.

_Breed. Breed. Breed!_

Suddenly a hand touches his shoulder, and he fights, whirling his hand around to punch the figure. Quickly though, his hand is caught in a tight grasp on the wrist, steady and calm.

“Here,” Molly, it’s Molly. “Eat these, hurry, then go wash yourself in the stream.” She holds a handful of bright red berries up to John’s lips and without hesitation he devours them.

They are bitter and spicy, much different than the wild strawberries he’d pick in this same forest when he’d take strolls behind Sherlock. He did love the sweet, smooth, earthy taste of a wild strawberry. But this berry was not that, it burned to swallow.

It didn’t take long for the effects to settle in, though, and soon John gained back his senses. The pain subsided, even a little, and his mind cleared. Molly rushed to the nearby stream and collected some water in her hands, bringing it back for him and pouring it into his mouth. John guzzles it down without question.

Once the berries settle fully in his belly, he could function again. He can fully see Molly and now its come to full fruition just what Molly knows. However, when he opens his mouth to speak to her, she stands and guides him to the stream. There is nothing said after that, not a word. They both seem to understand that this day will not be spoken of again, as if nothing ever happened. And that was fine to John, for he knew that Molly may be one of the only who he could keep this confided in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to all that read!  
> Your comments and Kudos really help keep each chapter coming.  
> The next couple chapters to come have much more Sherlock and John in them so stay tuned!  
> \- K


	4. Friends

“Here,” Sherlock smiled, passing John an item wrapped in burlap. “I had it made for you, by the blacksmith.”

John frowned at the bag Sherlock handed him. John was expecting a gift, after all, it was his tenth birthday. And Sherlock only ever gave him gifts on his special day. But he’s never given him anything handmade from a blacksmith. He unwrapped the item with care, making sure not to lose it. Whatever it was, it was small enough to fit in his palm. It slipped from the fabric with a soft ‘clink’ as it dropped into the divot of his hand. It was gold – a ring. The ring glistened in the afternoon sunlight, its color matching the gleaming gold wheat field surrounding them.

“It’s a friendship ring,” Sherlock explains, having seen John’s bewildered expression. “See? I have one too! So as long as we wear them, we will always be best friends.” Sherlock held up his hand, wiggling his fingers, showing off the matching ring on them.

John grinned, this was the most thoughtful gift he’d ever received and from his best friend no doubt! He quickly slipped it on his middle finger, it connected perfectly at his joint, right above his knuckle. “Thank you, Sire.” John spoke in an honored tone.

“Sherlock, remember? You don’t have to call me sire, that’s stupid.” They both share a laugh before getting up and playing tag as if the exchange had never happened.

____

John rolled the gold ring around in his pocket, balancing it over every finger in a fiddling act. The ring was always on him, either buried away in his tunic pocket or the hem of his shoe. It was always safe on him; he knew it brought him good luck. Though it was too small to wear on his middle finger anymore, he could still fit it snugly on his pinky. Some days he wears it when he feels brave enough to flaunt a piece of gold like that. Most servants could only dream of owning a piece of jewelry so ravishing as that one. That was the last gift Sherlock had ever given him, the last true gift before Sherlock had changed. It was that winter that Sherlock’s eldest Brother, Merlin, died in battle, protecting his family and the kingdom from the neighbors at war. A sword had been driven through his heart, or so the story goes. Sherlock had never been the same since that day. Keeping to himself, temper short, angry and cold. And John never got a second look from Sherlock, as if their many years of friendship as children just drifted away with the wind. John understood, he had lost people too after all.

“Ey, Watson, you gonna follow me or sit there in a haze?” Carl called, gripping the reins of Misty tightly in his palm.

John smiled and smacked the reins on his horse, ushering the animal ahead, deeper down the trail they take through the woods. It is John’s seventeenth birthday today and in celebration Carl took John on a ride. John did enjoy the quieter times on horseback. Allowing the animal to guide them through dense foliage, giving it the power so he could just let go, clear his mind, go numb. Recently he needed to have his mind cleansed. Sherlock has been in a particularly foul mood these few weeks, as it gets closer to the anniversary of his brothers’ death. He never did well this time of year. But right now, John just rode with one of the best people he’d ever known, following close behind him as he guides the way. John did love to watch Carl from afar, where he would not notice his steely gaze. How Carl has grown into an amazing soldier, one day he will lead a battle to war, and he will do a damn good job of it. If John weren’t still tied to Sherlock’s side, John would be a knight as well. Strong and mighty and admired. On his downtime he is being trained on the ways to wield a sword, to use a shield, to protect himself in battle. Many evenings after their duties are fulfilled, Carl and John battle together in the pastures. Wielding wooden practice swords, pretending them the real thing. Carl has grown to be such a great swordsman, really, he’s grown to be a great _everything_.

Most of that evening was spent on horseback and John enjoyed every second of it. But even more he enjoyed sitting on the blanket of leaves under him, deep in the woods with Carl beside him. The horses munch on the grass next to them, quiet and together. John and Carl talk, allowing all their stresses and worries of the day to melt away together in the quiet of the woods, their secrets hidden away in the bark of the trees. A bigger secret was what was held between these two men. For as they sit there together, John finds himself crawling into Carl’s lap. He wraps his legs around the brunette’s wide waist and presses their foreheads together before. He takes in his musty, woody scent before bending in and laying a gentle kiss on Carl’s lips. John and Carl found any moment alone to be like this, wrapped up in each other and exchanging kisses. It had to be a secret thing though, the King was very against any same sex interaction. But this felt so right. John felt complete and safe pressed chest to chest with his best friend. He’d never kissed anyone before Carl and he’s sure he never will anyone else.

Carl’s hands find a path up John’s shirt, dancing over his skin, tracing his spine. In a quick movement John’s flipped on his back with the brunette atop him, beaming a bright white smile down at him. Carl bends down and presses their lips together once more, deepening the kiss, pinning John’s head against the leaves and himself.

“Let me make love to you John, just today, for your special day. I promise I’ll make you feel so good.” Carl’s words were uttered against John’s lips before he trails down peppering kisses down John’s jaw. One of his hands sneak up John’s shirt and rest on his chest.

“Carl….” John stops Carl’s other hand that is drifting to the hem of his trousers. “Carl stop.”

No matter how many times they become intimate with one another, John never allows it to go past kissing and light touches - for obvious reasons. Though he trusted Carl, he couldn’t take any risk of anyone finding out what he is. His body did ache for it though and as John’s periods pass, he pleasures himself to the thought of Carl just to ebb the pain some. God what he’d do to have this man.

“I’m sorry, you know I just-” A gentle kiss on the lips hushes John’s worry and he’s melted once more.

“I thought I’d offer.” Carl smiled down at John, his face aglow with the setting sun.

It was nearly sundown which meant they should be heading back, so they did. After more soft and intimate kisses they began their journey, hand in hand as their horses rode at each other’s side. That night John took on his normal routine, preparing Sherlock’s bed for sleep, dousing many of the candles down and preparing a warm bowl of water for Sherlock to wash up before he went to sleep. John was aglow with memories of earlier, my how Carl made him feel like a newborn child, free and careless and loved.

“You are very fond of him,” Sherlock’s baritone voice cuts through the darkness as they both lay there, attempting to sleep later that night. 

John turns on the floor where he sleeps to face Sherlock’s bed. He was amazed the man was still up, seeing as Sherlock always normally fell asleep within seconds of his head hitting the pillow. Sherlock isn’t facing John – figures.

“Who?” John asked, his question was met with a sharp snort from Sherlock.

“The knight, the stableboy,” Quiet settled in between both as John tried to figure out what to say. How did Sherlock even know he was fond of Carl? Was he watching them when they didn’t know? Did Sherlock know something he shouldn’t? Just with those words John’s whole evening is shattered with worry. He could potentially die if the King found out two men liked one another.

Sad to say, this is the most they have spoken to each other besides Sherlock’s normal demands and needs. Sherlock wasn’t one for small talk or talk of any kind. Even at the table during meals when his father and brother attempted to make small talk, he only answered briefly and without true thought. John didn’t know what to make of this interaction.

“He’s a good friend.” John managed to say.

“Friend? Oh yes,” Sherlock’s tone was snide – unconvinced.

“What?” John could not help the short snap of the word as it exited his mouth.

“People don’t just have _friends_.” With that, the conversation ended, and Sherlock was asleep.

But John lay there, replaying that short interaction in his head over and over. What could that mean? What did he mean? Did he know something? Did John have to worry? Why did it matter either way? Sherlock never cared enough about anything.

It took John quite a while to fall asleep once his mind stopped reeling, but once he did fall asleep, he was deep in. So deep in fact that he barely woke when he heard a peculiar scratch at the windowpane next to him. It was a scratch, then a bang that woke him, snapping him up with a startled breath. In the darkness of the moon outside John could see a figure knocking at the window, the outline of white knuckles pressed against the glass. The figure adjusted and the moon caught their features. John was shocked. For sitting outside on the ledge of the castle, clinging to the edge of the window was no other than Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Here's couple Sherlock and John interactions for those of you who were waiting for it!  
> \- K


	5. Confession

“Sherlock?” John was bewildered, he takes a quick glance back realizing now Sherlock is, in fact, no longer in his bed. He threw his blanket off and rushed to the window, propping it open with a hard push of his shoulder. “What are you-”

“Help me in,” Sherlock demanded, extending his arm to John and he took it without question.

Sherlock slipped a lengthy leg into the room first and nearly stumbled to the floor, his boots clanking against the stone tiles under them loudly.

“Shh,” He spoke to the floor, wobbling around. He was drunk.

“Sire, what are you doing? Are you…? _Drunk_?” His question is met with another shh from Sherlock’s lips.

“Go to the nurse’s quarter and get me some medical supplies, seems I’ve cut myself while climbing back up the tree.” Sherlock rolls up the sleeve of his jacket to expose a long scratch down his forearm. It wasn’t deep but very fresh and bleeding as such.

John did just so, promptly gaining his footing and leaving the bedroom to get the supplies needed. He’d be able to wander the halls this time of night without recognition, for the knights knew he could be up for many reasons. Maybe Sherlock got sick in the middle of the night? Or maybe he needed more quilts on the bed.

John gathered the supplies and met Sherlock back in his room, taking a seat next to him on the bed. John quickly gets to dressing Sherlock’s wound, using a rag to wash the blood off first, then a salve to soothe it. He was trained by Ruby the nurse to tend to small things like this in case Sherlock ever needed it, and he did on occasion. But nothing ever like this, nothing ever this big. Sherlock would never be so reckless. The silence between them rung in John’s ears. He had so many questions but didn’t know how to ask them or if he even should. The pungent stench of scotch and dry mouth filled the gap between them, hot and foul. John cleared his throat and took a deep breath through his mouth in an attempt to not breathe it in once more. John glanced up to the man sitting ahead of him, hazily watching him dress the wound. In the state, Sherlock looked so…human? His normal marble features were softened, and his dark eyes were light. It was almost as if a whole different person sat before John, the old Sherlock he used to know.

“Why would you climb up the tree anyway?” Asked John, rolling his finger in circles around the cut to ensure the salve gets deep inside.

“I had to get back up here without notice from the night guards,” Sherlock answers without delay.

“Where were you?”

“At the tavern.” Sherlock’s honesty catches John off guard.

John wraps Sherlock’s arm with a bandage tightly and hovers his hand over it, glancing up to Sherlock.

He couldn’t help but admire him at this moment. His steely eyes lay gentle, the bags under them from the drinks visible in the moonlight. He was unconsciously handsome, every aspect of him looks like it had been carved by Michelangelo himself. He was so lengthy from his arms to his toes but he was so well balanced. His jawline was sharp and even, dusted with just the slightest bit of stubble from the day before.

He looks defeated though, eyes glued to the bandage on his arm. He wraps his hand around it, rubbing it.

“I’d have gone with you, if you’d only asked.” John says. “I could use some beer, to celebrate my birthday.” He chuckled.

“I didn’t stay long,” Sherlock dismisses John’s words. “You aren’t the only one who sneaks away to see your male ‘friends’ you know.”

John blinks, catching Sherlock’s gaze for just a second before he breaks away. Was he…? No, this is the Prince he was thinking about. There’s no way this prestigious man would tarnish his reputation by being…. gay? He knew his father would never agree to it. But maybe he was hiding it for the same reasons John did and he couldn’t argue with that.

“Okay,” John left the conversation at that and stood, walking back to his bed on the floor and taking a seat. The face Sherlock made in return was that of confusion.

“You don’t want to know more?” He asks, shrugging off his jacket. “You don’t want to know why your _perfect_ prince was sneaking around at all hours of the night, getting plastered off his mind with friends he only ever met once?”

“If you wanted me to know you’d tell me.” John reasoned.

Sherlock stared at John, raising a brow. He offered Sherlock a simple smile in reply and to John’s surprise, he received a small one back from Sherlock. John’s heart fluttered.

“Goodnight,” Sherlock peeled his trousers off and tucked his legs into the blankets of his bed. “Happy birthday, John.” With that, he was back asleep.

This is the first time Sherlock has called John by his name in nearly seven years. Hearing his name slip from Sherlock’s lips was music to his ears and the ache between his legs agreed.


	6. Tavern

Almost every night after that, Sherlock snuck out. It was always around the same time – when John’s breaths evened out and he was fast asleep, or so Sherlock thought. It worried him, for every night when Sherlock returned, he was increasingly drunk and smothered with the smell of sweat and booze. If he were feeling very reckless, he’d come home with love bites on the base of his neck or scattered over his collarbones. He always had a way of hiding the marks he acquired from his adventures out if it an ascot around his neck or a high collared waistcoat.

Many days, while Sherlock quietly studied, John would watch him – examine him. He could not believe Sherlock’s family never once noticed the battered look their nineteen-year-old son wore now. His skin was harbored, eyes red and distant. All you’d have to do is look at him to see he was hurting and self-medicating. But to be fair, his father and brother never paid him much mind either way. But John saw it and knew Sherlock was only ever drinking to hide the pain of the upcoming anniversary of his brother’s death. John wished he could do that some days with the lingering memory of his mother, or older sister who passed from pneumonia when he was incredibly young. But John took great pride in never once succumbing too hard to the drink. Granted, he did love a beer or wine from time to time but never enough to tie him down.

Sherlock handled his hangovers like a champion though, only ever expressing a brief groan of pain when waking in the morning. John would make sure to give him plenty of water as he woke to drown out all the festering liquids inside. Really it didn’t matter, for he knew Sherlock would be at it all over again the next night.

___

This night, however, was unlike most. Sherlock snuck out at his normal time but never came back. John woke as Sherlock left and never once went back to sleep. He always stayed awake to make sure his prince returned. The minutes became hours, and he knew soon the sun would be rising. Sherlock always left enough time to return home and get a decent amount of rest before sunrise, but tonight he was still gone with only a couple hours remaining. John worried while standing by the open window, watching the gates that exit to the road leading to town. No sign of Sherlock anywhere on the horizon. His stomach swirls in knots with the thought of what could have happened to him. John curses under his breath and shrugs a coat on from Sherlock’s dresser. It was massive on him, but the weather outside was bitter and John wasn’t about to freeze his arse off to save Sherlock. Before he left the room, he grabbed his ring from under his pillow, slipping it onto his pinky finger. He hoped no one would bother him in town if they saw the gold on his hand. It was a royal thing to dawn gold on your body and the townspeople should know not to mess with the royals.

He raced from Sherlock’s bedroom and to the exit door, being sure to quietly shut it behind him. The moon was only a sliver in the sky, not allowing John much light for his travels, luckily though the dirt road led straight to town so if he followed it, he’d be fine. The darkness swallowed the land around him accompanied with an eerie quiet. No birds, no wind, no echoes. His heart picked up, pumping blood straight to his ears. The silence was shocking and kept John off balance. Damnit Sherlock. It took him nearly thirty minutes to find the glow of candlelight illuminating the small village ahead of him. He breathed a sigh of relief once entering the village that was surprisingly still awake. Many people stood outside the brick homes lining the road, gossiping and sharing a bottle of alcohol. Some women stood on the corners, giving John sly smiles and offering to exchange their time for just a little bit of money. John was sure to ignore the frequent stares he got and made his way to the tavern, which really was only an upper room above a good civilian’s home. The home had a flight of stairs on the outside brick foundation that you must climb in order to get to the pub, so John climbed them with haste, slipping by men on the railings. They watched him closely.

“Oi, never seen you around these parts, what’s ya name?” One of the taller men slurs out, taking a swig of his beer, his eyes surprisingly clung on John.

“I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes, have you seen him?” John asks, placing his hand on the handle of the door, squeezing tightly.

“Oh, the Prince you mean?” The same man chuckles deeply. “Haven’t seen em.”

John rolls his eyes at him and opens the door, but before he can enter, the same man is taking ahold of the hem of his jacket. “What you lookin for him for anyhow? Who are you?”

John narrows his eyes at the taller man, making sure his expression never shifts once. Though this man may be drunk, he’s not drunk enough to be unaware of his actions. John takes ahold of his jacket and yanks it from the man’s grasp. “That is none of your concern.”

“I think it could be.” His words slither around his mouth like a boat following the water.

John ignores him and welcomes himself inside. It’s merely a room, with a couple bar tables and four stools each to match. The air is stale and humid, reeking of rotting wood and vaporizing alcohols of all sorts. Men and women chatter around the tables, sipping at their drinks between every word. Almost every person watches John from the side of their eye as if he were coming to take something from them. John walks to the bartender.

“I’m looking for Sher-” Before he can finish the bartender stops him with a shake of his head.

“Whomever you are looking for they ain’t here,” His thick mustache kissed his bottom lip with every word.

“I know he is,” John retorted. “I watched him leave to come here. I’m his Page Boy.”

“No one like that here.”

John sighs, slipping a couple coins in the man’s direction over the counter. He earned those rightfully in a poker game with Carl and two other stablemen. It’s the most money he’s ever had and will ever have. But he won’t hesitate once on giving it up if it meant protecting his Prince. The tender raised a brow in interest and hastily took it and counted it.

“He’s in room one,” The man shoves the money in his pocket and leaves to fill another drink. Good to know the people here are loyal.

John turns and sees lines of doors on the back wall, each with a number plate over it. He goes to the number one room and enters without even a knock. At this point he couldn’t be more annoyed with his Prince. What he finds in the room catches him off guard. Inside, Sherlock lay on the floor, partially naked, passed out cold. On the couch beside him sit a young man, wearing nothing but a sheet over his waist, leaving nothing to the imagination. He sits, legs crossed daintily as he sips on the drink in his hand, not caring that Sherlock was so knocked out that drool seeped from his open mouth. John hit his knees to kneel beside Sherlock, taking his pulse with two fingers. He’s breathing. He forces Sherlock’s head into his lap, propping it up.

“Come on Sherlock,” He opens Sherlock’s mouth, scooping out the foam covering his tongue.

“Wake up now, we have to get you home.” There’s no response from the curly haired man.

Sherlock has really done it now. Getting so sodding drunk he can’t even function. Half-naked and in a brothel room no less. John thought him better than this. He pats Sherlock’s back, getting a retching breath from him in return. John sighs, knowing what he had to do. He connected his pointer and middle finger and shoved them down his throat until the man started to wriggle and gag. Sherlock’s eyes swung open as a flood of nausea hit him and he quickly threw up all over himself and John who was still holding him in his lap. It was only liquid, copious amounts of alcohols mixed with very little food.

“Sherlock?” John was so worried he couldn’t respond to the liquids all over his trousers. Sherlock blinks up at him, panting.

“What are you doing here?” He gasps as he realizes it’s his page boy. “Get out.”

John was floored. Here he sits, covered in Sherlock’s vomit and sweat, having just saved his bloody life and he gets this in return? He couldn’t find the words to respond for the longest time.

“You need to go home,” John tells him, attempting to keep his voice even.

“Get out, Page Boy, I didn’t need your help,” Sherlock nearly shoved John away as he took a stand. “I don’t need _you_ telling me what I shall and shall not be doing. _You_ , of all the people.” He snorts, still stumbling around from the remaining booze mixing inside his guts.

John stays seated on the floor – baffled. Sherlock stumbles over to an end table holding even more alcohol and takes a swig of the woody drink, hissing as it enters his raw throat. He’s fully lost it now. It doesn’t compute to John until just this moment that today was the day – the day his brother died those years ago. No wonder he’s in such a rut. John tried to sympathize, but self-medicating to the point of nearly killing yourself is never the best response.

“Sherlock….” He stops his sentence there when he sees the dagger of a look Sherlock throws at him.

“Do not call me that. I am your _master_ , your _head_ , you address me as Sire.”

“Sire,” John corrects. “I am not trying to tell you what to do. You are an adult; you can do as you wish. But running away almost every evening to get plastered, have sex then come home exhausted isn’t the best way to cope with things. I know your brother passed today and it’s incredibly hard for you but -”

“Stop,” Sherlock’s voice is a low rumble in his throat. “Don’t you _dare_ tell me what you know.”

He slams the bottle down on the table, vibrating the room with a clattering noise. The young prostitute takes that as his leave and exits the room in a hurry, shutting the door tightly behind him, leaving John alone with an overly angry drunk.

“What do you know, oh little Page Boy? What do you know of death or heartache? Do you think just because you were taken from mummy all those years ago that you know of heartache? As if she’s sitting in her home every day mourning over the bastard son she once had?” He laughs again, approaching John with wide strides. “Well, boy, she isn’t. She’s made many more children with her new husband who bought her from slavery. She pampers those children, loves them. She doesn’t have the time to think about the son she sold.”

John swallows hard around the lump of burning pain stuck in his throat. Sherlock keeps walking up to John until he’s forcing the smaller blonde up against the nearest wall. He stops when John’s back hits the wall.

“Oh?” Sherlock raises a brow, eyes scanning all over John’s face. “You didn’t know she sold you…. did you? You thought she was just forced to give you away? Oh, you silly boy, she was more than happy to sell you off for two pence, that’s not even enough for four chickens. You were less to her than some earth dwelling poultry.”

Sherlock pins John against the wall, his hand bracing on the wall beside John’s face. John’s eyes are to the floor, tears stinging the waterlines, begging to topple over. John wasn’t one for tears, he honestly can’t remember the last time he cried. But this? This was a pain he hadn’t felt. He couldn’t believe his mother would think so low of him to sell him off for less than some chickens. His mother loved him. Why was Sherlock being like this?

“All that,” Sherlock continues, using his other hand to perch under John’s chin, forcing his face up. “And your pain is mundane compared to mine.”

John’s dark blue eyes are bloodshot red with the tears he forced back, and they investigated Sherlock’s, whose were just the same, but for different reasons. Sherlock’s flick between John’s, drinking in his face. John blinks once forcing two streams of tears to trail down his cheeks. Sherlock takes the hand nearest to John’s face and brushes the pad of his thumb over John’s cheek, wiping the tear off. The touch was surprisingly soft for the harsh words he just spoke like venom. Through his tears, he could see Sherlock’s blazing red face cool and the realization of what he said fall over him.

“Go home, John.” He says, quiet. He steps back and goes once again over to the couch he once reclined on, taking a seat and rubbing his temples.

John stood where he was for a while, aching all over from heart to head. Without another word he turned his back and left the room, not looking back once. He made his way home quicker than he arrived and hastily washed the vomit from his skin. He then curled into his bed and threw the covers over his head, allowing his hurt to wash over him like a wave. He sobbed – crushed. He sobbed for as long as his body could handle it before it forced him to stop and fall deep asleep with that gold ring…. still on his pinky finger.


	7. Skinned

Sherlock and his Page Boy didn’t speak much after that night. Sherlock gave John his normal demands and John obeyed without a hesitation. It was in his blood to obey anything his Prince ordered, even if in his mind he was enraged with the curly haired man. Sherlock kept to his normal self, quiet and distant, so John never knew what he truly thought of their encounter that night.

Three days after, John got that normal ache in the pit of his core, signaling his period was to start. He was grateful to his body that it always gave him signs ahead so he could get the berries ingested in time to show no signs or symptoms. As soon as he felt that familiar pain, he rushed to the kitchen downstairs where one of his favorite house maids cooks the meals for the evening – Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson was an expert cook and has fed the Holmes family for generations, even Siger when he was a young man. She’s known the insides and out of this kingdom, all the drama, all the hardships. She was the first person who greeted John when he arrived at the castle those years ago. She taught him his ABC’S and even how to write. She cared for him like one of her own, she did that to all the new children coming into this place. John was closer to her than anyone else in this cold castle. Closer than Sherlock or Carl.

John smiled at her and gave her a brief kiss on the cheek as a greeting when he entered the warm room.

“And what are you in search for today, John?” She smiles, stirring the pot hanging over a burning fire.

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson you know I’ve come to see if you’ve made any more of those delicious macadamia nut cookies.” His eyes scan over the long wooden table ahead of him where plates and dishes of prepared food sit.

“Oh you,” She gently smacks his hand away from a plate with her spoon. “I’ve saved you some, you cheeky bugger.” She passes him a plate with three cookies on it.

“You are a saint,” He eats one with haste, realizing that this was his first real meal of the day.

“Now get out of my kitchen before you eat me out of here and I can’t prepare this evenings meal.”

He sneaks the remaining cookies in his trouser pockets and slips into the dry pantry while she turns back to her stove and continues cooking the stew she was working on. He scans over the various jars of dried and canned goods – strawberries, cucumbers, beets, carrots. In the back of the pantry was a shelf with spices in tightly closed jars, in the far back John eyed the one he was looking for. He opened the jar and scooped some of the powdered substance into his mouth, being sure to let it settle on his tongue before swallowing. Casper berries really had such a horrid taste to them. He scooped two more spoonful’s into his mouth and swallowed. That should hold him off for the next day or two, depending on how bad his period was this time around.

“You know those berries are hard to find this time of year,” Mrs. Hudson startled John as her voice suddenly spoke behind him. He turned to look at her after he placed the jar back on the shelf. “You should ration that out, we don’t want you running out before spring comes and they grow again.”

She knew. She’s known John was intersex since his first period. Her daughter was intersex, and she knew the familiar signs and smells John gave off before he knew how to control them. Her daughter was taken from her when she turned fifteen and she’s never seen her since. Maybe that’s why she treats John with such careful love and admiration. She wants to keep him safer than she ever could her daughter.

“Do you need new rags? I’ve gotten you some from the linin room, they are in the cabinet inside my grinding bowl. They may not be as soft as the last, these are from the burlap sacks of corn outside. It was all I could get you.” These thin sheets of cloth were perfect for hiding the blood that John leaks every period. It was easier for her to get them than him, people are less suspicious, seeing as she is a housemaid and sews quite often.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. What would I do without you?” He passes her quickly to get the rags, not before kissing her again on the cheek. He tucks the fabric into his other pocket.

“Now get out of my kitchen before you think I’m _your_ housekeeper.” She gives him a glowing smile and he returns one before leaving the kitchen.

**____**

John watches Sherlock write out his letter to the Duke of Pepperton, arranging a trade of goods between their lands. Sherlock looked the best when focusing. Really his whole demeanor changes and he washes away into another world. His curls fell into his eyes, bordering them, but he didn’t notice and looked through them to his letter. His fingers gripped the quill in them expertly, flicking it about the page without thought, curling around every letter. He wore only a soft white ruffled blouse-like shirt and black trousers – a simple outfit for a day of mundane duties. The shirt was opened at the top some in a V shape, allowing the soft tuffs of black chest hair to peek through the hem. John didn’t get to see that hair often; Sherlock always wore clothing that didn’t expose much of his body. Sherlock was a private person after all, he didn’t even allow John to bathe him, he always insisted on doing it himself where his brother and father would never dream of bathing themselves. It was unlike any royal to bathe themselves or dress, but Sherlock was anything but a normal royal.

The quiet room was quickly interrupted by a Carrier slipping in. “The King has requested you come to his study, Sire.” He tells Sherlock.

Sherlock only gives the older man a quick look before he goes back to his letter. “Tell him I’m busy.”

“Sire, this is urgent. He asks you bring your boy servant as well.”

John frowns at that and glances to Sherlock who is exchanging a confused look with him.

“What is this about?” Sherlock asks, exasperated. He never liked to be interrupted while working.

“I was not told, Sire, only to fetch you and your servant boy.” The man turns on his heels and exits the room without another word.

Sherlock grumbles, wiping his long fingers over his face before standing. John grabs Sherlock’s coat that drapes over his chair and offers it to the brunette to wear and he takes it, buttoning it up to his neck. No longer exposing his skin, back to ever modest Sherlock. Both men wander down the lanky halls of the castle. If the king were anything, he was extravagant. He lined the walls of his home with paintings and decor that one could only wish of having kingdoms over. He wasn’t one for sharing his wealth, even with his own townspeople who starve to death every day. If he were to give them just a fraction of his wealth the village would be more stunning than any around. But Siger wasn’t known to be a very compassionate man.

The two men entered Siger’s study. He stood in front of an open window, allowing the freezing air of winter to gush into the room. The servant he had standing next to him tried to hide the shivers that racked his body. The king paid the boy no mind, breathing in deep.

“What is this about? I was in the middle of writing -”

“I’ve been told you are sneaking out, Sherlock.” His father’s voice is dark and deep – angry.

Sherlock frowns, opening his mouth to retort but his father shakes his head and continues.

“That you are running off to the village. For what?” He turns to face his son, his characters cold. “What could be in that disgusting village that you would need to sneak away to find?”

John’s eyes slip over to Sherlock, watching his mind reel with his father’s questions. “I’ve not been sneaking out.” Sherlock blatantly replies, his voice even.

The King snickers, it was a foul sound, he never laughed unless over someone’s pain. It left a tenseness in the air. “I’ve explained to you how I don’t like lying, Sherlock, have I not? What happens to liars.” He looks up to meet his son’s eyes, his own sharp. “What were you doing sneaking out?”

Sherlock huffs, shaking his head but keeping the eye contact with his father. “Drinking,”

“Drinking? Or getting so drunk the townspeople had to drag your useless arse back here? Like some sort of homeless peasant?” He spits but stays completely calm. “We hold standards in this house, Sherlock.”

“Do we? I was unaware of that.” Sherlock’s snide comment gets no reply from the older man.

“I was told you not only get drunk but run off and find yourself a prostitute to spend your time with. _Men_ , at that.” His father’s disgust shows in the way he spits out the word ‘men’.

“Why would I do that? I have no interest in being sexual with anyone, let alone a male.” Sherlock lies so easily, how?

Siger watches his son for a long time, both completely quiet with only the sound of the cool air sneaking through the room. Siger’s eyes narrow briefly at Sherlock before they swiftly change to John. John feels a flush of panic run through him as the older man steps closer.

“Do you know what I have done with liars, Page Boy?” He addresses John as if he didn’t know his name.

“No, your Highness.” John keeps his voice as level as he could.

“I skin them,” His tongue slithers around the words he spoke, spewing venom. “Do you have any idea how it feels to be skinned alive, Page Boy? Well, let me explain. We start with your fingers, perfectly placing bamboo shoots deep under your nails then using a mallet to force the shoots inside until they pop your nails off one by one. Then we use a knife to sliver back that newly exposed skin until you are bare up to the knuckles. We let you sit there in that burning, agonizing pain for an hour or so before we come back and begin with your feet, doing the same until you are naked to your groin,” He speaks so expertly, out of knowledge. He’s done this before.

“We give you time to sit, feel the pain, bathe in it. We may even pour some alcohol on the bare flesh, sprinkle some dirt on it and rub it in.” He smiles as John shutters with the thought. “We make sure to take it as slow as we can, like skinning a deer. Once you have no skin left, we leave you there to seethe in pain, throw you outside with honey over you so the wildlife will take you away…”

John swallows but keeps his face still, trying as hard as he could to not to show any reaction to the story.

“You see that man out there?” He nods out the open window to a man lying on the ground, dirt thrown over his dead body like soil on a garden. “He had that exact thing happen to him because he lied to me about stealing a piece of silverware from my kitchen. ‘To feed my family’ he begged as I had my men fillet him.”

He looked to the desk beside him and picked up a letter opener, running his finger slowly over the blade, it shimmers in the candlelight.

“I won’t hesitate to have that happen to you, Page Boy, if you lie to me. Now,” He looks to John, spinning the opener in his fingers. “Did my son sneak out?”

John blinks, his throat pounded with his erratic heartbeat. He knew the king was a bad man, but never how bad. “Yes, your Highness.” He nodded.

“And did he get drunk while out?”

John bit the inside of his lip hard, feeling Sherlock’s gaze on him. “Yes,”

The room went quiet once more as Sherlock sighs. The King places the blade on the desk once more, but kept his palm hovering over it.

“And was he with male prostitutes?” This question hit the air like a rock, hard and sharp.

John shook his head. He knew he was a terrible liar, but he couldn’t give Sherlock away. If the King ever knew his own son was gay, John had no idea what he’d do to him. But John was still so angry at Sherlock, he was being reckless, and he crushed John’s heart by telling him of his mother. He never showed John any compassion and most likely wouldn’t protect him if the tables were turned. Why must John protect a man who would never protect him? He knew Sherlock would just replace him if he were ever to die. So, what’s the point?

He clenches his fist, feeling a flush of anger wash over him as he remembers all that Sherlock has put him through and he knew exactly what he was going to tell the king about his son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you guys think of dark daddy Holmes?  
> \- K


	8. Liar

“No, your Highness.” The words were quick from John’s mouth and he stood straight, keeping eye contact with the King.

Sherlock’s eyes flick back over to John, blinking. Sherlock knew that was a lie, but John looked so sure.

“Honestly, your Highness, I’ve never once assumed Sherlock had interest in anyone in a manor like that. He doesn’t as much as glance at the mistresses and knights that stride around here, who throw themselves at him any chance they get. Your son isn’t one for feelings, Sire. I don’t think he would invest his time enough to get involved physically with someone let alone a man. He’s expressed a disgust in the male physique many times. I don’t think you have to worry about that.” His words are calm, so easily lied.

The King watched both men before sighing and turning back to the window. “Very well then, you both may leave. However,” His voice drops. “If I find either of you have lied to me, I’ll be sure to have much worse than a skinning happen, is that understood? I do not take kindly to my own blood and my bought servants lying to me.”

Both Sherlock and John agree and leave the room, shutting the door behind them. Sherlock looks to John now; his expression was unreadable. It was a cool look, but his eyes were soft.

“Come with me to the garden for a promenade?” Sherlock offers, he’s never offered John anything.

John agrees with a nod. They take a quiet walk through the hedges in the garden, through the large maze of bushes. No flowers were in bloom this time of year, but the green foliage around them is no less beautiful. John’s taken many walks with Sherlock in this garden, they even used to play tag in the swirling isles of the maze.

“Come stand beside me,” Sherlock offered. Normally John always walked behind Sherlock in a sign of submission. John caught up to Sherlock’s long stride.

Sherlock’s eyes scan their surroundings before he clears his throat, folding his fingers together behind his back. “Why did you lie?”

John shrugs, being sure to keep his voice low. “I am your servant, not his. If he wanted my loyalty, he should’ve earned it.”

“And I have?” Sherlock raises a brow at John, unbelieving. “I talk so low of you always, treat you like dirt on the bottom of my boots. I degrade your mother and your beliefs without a thought, and yet you are loyal to _me_?”

John picked at the skin that hung loose by his middle finger, thinking. “My loyalty lies in you, Sire. As much as it hurt to have you suddenly become so distant, not to mention bring up my mother, you….” He cleared his throat, “You are the only family I have.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, letting the conversation linger. John didn’t know if he said something wrong, so he looks to Sherlock. “I mean…I just-”

“You think of me as your family?” Sherlock cuts through John’s words.

John gives Sherlock a crooked smile. “Well, yes. You are all I’ve ever had. You and I grew up together, you’ve shown me a lot of things.”

Sherlock stops and looks at John, his eyes sparkle in the overcast fog that lit the cool air. “Like how to cast a fishing line?” His lips threaten to smile.

John’s eyes shift between Sherlock’s and he can’t help but smile back. Is Sherlock referring to when they were kids at the lake? He has not brought up anything of their childhood in years, really he hasn’t had a full conversation with him like this in longer than John could remember. Just talking, just enjoying the back and forth.

“You did a rubbish job at it,” He retorts. “I cast _your_ line and never got a bite! But once I cast my own in the direction you swore was going to yield me no fish, what happened? Oh yes! I got a large trout.”

“Only out of sheer luck,” Sherlock smiles.

“Sherlock Holmes doesn’t believe in luck,”

Both men continue to stand there, eyes shifting between each, drinking in their faces. Sherlock smiles and so does the blonde ahead of him and the whole world was quiet for once. John felt a flutter in his heart as he watched Sherlock laugh and smile for the first time in years. And over their memories no doubt? Did Sherlock really feel that highly of the memories they shared?

“The other night, I should never had brought up your mother as I did and I do apologize for that. I’ve only ever been told about her, so I truly don’t know if what I told you was true. I’m sure your mother was a wonderful women, John. Do not take any offense to what I say in my drunken stoopers,”

John nods, feeling some sort of relief in knowing that the story of his mother selling him could very well be made up. “I forgive you.”

As continue to walk, the evening starts to grow dark, causing the air to become more and more frigid. Though Sherlock had his thick coat on and some warmer layers under it, John had nothing but a tunic and some thin trousers. The air entered their lungs burning and exited with a deep white cloud. John tried to hide that he wasn’t cold down to his core, but it had to be close to freezing. Sherlock however wanted to take a walk and John would never request they go in until Sherlock was done. Sherlock helped them hurry their way out of the maze and once to the exit he shrugged off his jacket, holding it out to the blonde.

“What’s this?” Asks John.

“Take it, you’ll get sick if you get too cold.”  
Without his jacket on, John could see that white blouse Sherlock wore. It was still open, allowing Sherlock’s chest hair to escape, caressing the deep line of his pectoral muscles. John couldn’t help but stare for a long moment at the sight of him right there in this moment. His curls were perfectly layered and tight in a halo around his head. The singular ringlets drape down, covering just one eye in a frame. His iris’ dance with ice blue, almost gray in the foggy lighting. Trails of heat exit his mouth, swirling around his tight cheekbones and over his head. John liked that he must look up to make eye contact with him, for he was taller and that was perfect. _He_ was perfect, even more so while wearing the best article of all – a smile. It suited him. John could stay plenty warm in that smile alone.

“Take it,” He pushes his jacket to John when he doesn’t take it.

“No, I couldn’t Sire, it is yours. You must keep warm; I assure you I am fine.”

“It wasn’t a request,” Sherlock’s eyes didn’t once shift from John’s. “Take it and put it on.”

Assertive, dominate, controlling. The demand shook John to his core, and he couldn’t do anything to respond but take the jacket and pull it around himself. Sherlock nods and they head back to the castle.

That evening the two men spend in Sherlock’s study. Sherlock finishes the many letters he must write, which takes him a few hours at the least. John doesn’t speak a word to him as he concentrates. He stands beside the man and watches him closely, still wearing the black jacket around him. He honestly never wanted to take it off. He tugged it around him tighter, taking in the musty, woody scent that was Sherlock all over it.

As they both lay for sleep later that night, John’s mind reels with the day’s events. He never once imagined him lying for Sherlock would be what got them to have a conversation. He’d do it over and over if it got Sherlock to be the happy, lovely man John knew he could be. He gained Sherlock’s trust and he never wanted to break it.

“Do you judge me, John? For having a fancy for men?” Sherlock suddenly asks over the shared silence.

“No. Why would I?” John asks. “Because your father thinks it a sin? Why have an attraction to someone if you aren’t supposed to?”

“Do you think?” Sherlock sits up and looks down at the foot of the bed where John sleeps on the floor.

This is the first time Sherlock has ever been told his feelings were okay, that he’s valid and not judged.

“Yes. You are not picky in who you choose to love, like me.” John offers Sherlock a smile.

“Ah yes, that’s why you like that Stableboy so much. You fancy him?”

John swallowed, a hot flush lining his cheeks. “I do. He’s very kind. Either way, it’s all fine, I’ll never judge you.” 

Sherlock stared at John for a long time before speaking again. “Thank you, John.” And with that he laid down and the silence settled over them once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Right, okay. You're unattached, just like me. Fine. Good."  
> "John, I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work and while I am flattered by your interest I'm-"  
> "No I'm not asking - no. I was just saying. It's all fine."  
> "Good, thank you."  
> Tried to Easter egg that iconic line in this chapter with my own spin.  
> You'll find a couple times iconic Sherlock lines are slipped into certain chapters.  
> \- K


	9. Touch

The several days to follow were filled with the dark clouds of snow, and quickly the soft pillow of snow ascended from the sky, blanketing the ground. It was the first snowfall of the winter and many of the workers went outside to enjoy it. Many maids’ children ran around and played, carelessly enjoying the cold nip in the air. John spent his time outside with Carl tending to the horses now that one of the stablemen has come down with a bad cold. John offered to help with the horses and Sherlock allowed him to go seeing as there weren’t many duties John would have to tend to. So John takes out his favorite horse, Rosie, to give her some special attention. He pets down her mane, resting a hand on the warm crook of her neck. She breathes slowly, clouds of smoke from the cold forming around her nostrils.

“That’s a good girl,” John pets down her front leg and coaxes it up with a gentle pull, bringing her hoof close to his face. He uses a pick and starts to scrape the mud from the V formation on the bottom of her shoe.

Carl watched as he so gently tended to the horse, as he talked to her and insured her it was all fine. John cared for all – people and animal.

Carl snuck up behind John once he was done cleaning the shoe and wrapped his arms around John’s back, pulling him close.

“Rosie loves you,” He whispers against the shell of John’s ear. John shutters as the heat of his breath swirls around his ear. He turns in Carl’s arms and smiles up at him, running his fingers over the small hairs on the nape of Carl’s neck. Both men share a brief kiss before simply melting into the embrace of the other. This is the first time they’ve been together in days and the warmth shared between them is needed. Neither said a word, knowing they were tucked away in security together in this moment, only the horses sound of munching on hay around them.

Sherlock sighs, watching the men from far across one of the paddocks. The ache in his chest as he watched John kiss this man was something unknown to him. He pulls his jacket tighter around him as a gust of cool air rolls past, stinging his face.

“Are you ever going to tell him you watch him from afar everywhere he goes?” Molly’s soft voice peeks up behind Sherlock.

“I watch him for his security.” Sherlock lies, never once breaking his eye contact with the two men.

Molly gives him an unbelieving look, shoving her hands into her dress pockets. “Only when he’s with Carl? For how many years have you wondered out when John’s not around you and spy on him? And yet only for his security?” She lifts a brow.

Sherlock finally looks to her, frowning.

“Don’t try and deny it, Sire. I see it,” She smiles at him. “He’s safe with Carl, Sire. I promise it. He has a kind heart. You should allow them to be alone and enjoy one another, John's heart belongs to him, he's safe.” She pats Sherlock’s shoulder and walks away.

Sherlock sighs, casting his eyes back over as they both laugh together, Carl tickling behind John’s neck. “That’s not the problem….”

**____**

The next day John started his period as he predicted. Having expected it he was able to catch it beforehand, placing the fabric Mrs. Hudson gave him in his underwear and being sure to digest many scoops of the Casper Berry powder.

He spent the afternoon assisting the housemaids with their chores, one of which was folding Sherlock’s garments and bringing them upstairs to put away in his dresser drawers. He stacks one shirt on top of the other in the dresser when he hears a splash of water from Sherlock’s washroom. John looks up to find Sherlock’s reflection in the standing mirror next to him. The pale brunette is exiting his porcelain tub, stark naked. John, for the first time, sees Sherlock’s fully bare backside. The way his skin curves down into deep divots on the small of his back. His skin is flawless, not a mark or scar, marble and silk. John’s eyes travel down the reflection to Sherlock’s bum, perfectly round and firm. John swallows and shifts where he stands, instantly feeling a deep throbbing ache between his legs. A soft throb was normal this time of month but nothing like this. This throb tingled and ran all over his body in shockwaves, blurring his vision some.

_Breed._

_Breed._

_Breed!_

“Oh God,” He breathes, ripping his eyes from Sherlock’s reflection and swiftly shoving Sherlock’s clothing into the drawer so he could get out of there – he had to.

“John?” Sherlock calls out as he exits the washroom with nothing but a towel over his midsection.

John stops in his tracks as Sherlock calls out his name, _damnit_. “Yes, Sire?”

“What are you doing?” He questions, holding the knot he made on the side of the towel.

John turns to face the brunette, being sure to keep eye contact instead of allowing his eyes to wander. But God even the view of Sherlock like this was enough to drive John up a wall. Not only the way he looked, but the fact that Sherlock never allowed anyone to see him naked – John was the first. John’s ears rung. Sherlock’s curls clung to his forehead, dripping down the slopes of his face and down his neck…. _God that neck._

“I was only putting away your linins,” John chokes out, giving Sherlock a polite smile.

Sherlock lifts a brow and nods at John. “Alright, thank you.” He turns and goes to his dresser to find clothing for the day and John raced from the room as quickly as he could.

John found himself hiding away in a supply room, the darkness and quiet of it was relaxing. He slumped down to the ground and tried to calm his mind; all it did was race with Sherlock. The throbbing continued, begging to be satisfied. The flashes of each throb are accompanied by an image of Sherlock, of his body, his voice, his smile. John pants, gripping himself between his legs and he was rock hard. The touch felt good…. too good. John swallowed hard and slid his hand down his trousers, allowing himself to touch all that he’s never touched before – not like this at least. The firm grip set his nerves on fire and shook him down to his toes. He began a quick pump on himself, imagining Sherlock and only Sherlock. His fingers trailed down below his shaft right to the soft opening of his vagina, it was warm and slick with a needy wetness, begging to be bred. John whimpered as he brushed his fingers over his opening and sunk them in deep with a simple push. John ears pulsed, toes curling at the simple touch. He was a pool of hot needy sensations and he never wanted to be anything but that in this moment. He imagined it in dirty detail, all the things he’d allow his Prince to do to him and that alone made his soul set fire, forcing his mind on a track to destruction. John melted, succumbing to the bliss he was bathing in – the dirty raw bliss of touching himself to the thought of Sherlock Holmes. What would mama think?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *spicy music plays* Oh Johnny haha  
> Hope you all are okay with a shorter chapter this time, promise a longer one is coming!  
> \- K


	10. Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for 1k hits on this story! It means so much!  
> Also if you all would like, go ahead and follow me on Tumblr at keeperskey!  
> I post updates on this story and new ones I'm working on as well as love to talk to people who love Sherlock, writing, reading, ect.  
> Enjoy!  
> \- K

That evening John joins Sherlock in the dining hall for their normally scheduled eight o’clock dinner with his family. The dining hall was an immaculate room, exquisitely furnished, from top to bottom. From the gold leafed chairs each Holmes sits in, to the intricate paintings of the many Holmes generations down to the current line framed on the walls. The Queen, Sherlock’s mum, stares back at John from her beautiful painting hanging right across the room from where King Siger sits. She was dazzling. Sherlock looked so much like her, from his ice blue eyes to the sharp outline of his face. Her smile was a warm glow in this place, a glow its not seen since her passing. John heard she was a spectacular woman who cared for all like her own family, that she accepted all. Only after her passing did the king really settle in the laws of being prejudice to everyone who was different. Maybe Sherlock got his understanding from her?

John took his standing position next to a new maid at the far wall of the room, out of the way of the Holmes and their conversations. John nods a welcome at the young maid who was just brought to the castle but six days ago, she couldn’t be much older than thirteen.

The men sitting at the table were served their meals, garnished on gold plates that sparkle in the candlelight lining the long table. This table had twenty-five chairs, yet the men refused to sit close, allowing the table to give them as much space away from each other as it could. It was warm in the room with the fireplace ablaze and the candles burning, but the tension in the air made it so very cold. The King and his now eldest son Mycroft discuss the day’s events and the current financial status of the kingdom and its inhabitants, the normal small talk that bored Sherlock so he sat, twirling his pasta on his fork, obviously thinking of other things.

“What do you think of it, Sherlock?” The King asks, taking a bite of his linguini.

Sherlock looks up, his face blank, proving he wasn’t listening as John assumed. “Of what?”

The King sighs – exasperated. “Why do you never listen? I was talking to your brother about throwing a gala to bring some eligible maidens here for you both to meet. You both are at the age to court and marry and if you are to inherit the throne one day you must have a wife by your side, it’s only natural.”

Sherlock peers back down to his food, not replying. Something is on his mind and it’s much more than finding a wife.

“I won’t have you ignoring me, boy. Look up to me as I speak,” His father’s voice was low.

Sherlock’s eyes drift back to his father. “I don’t see the need for me to have a wife at the moment when Mycroft will be the next to inherit the throne after you. Then after him it will be me, by that time I’ll be an old man and lived my life and will be ready to settle down,”

“I think you’ve already sewn your wild oats, Sherlock. It is time for you now to settle and take on the responsibility of carrying on my name and our lineage.” His father responds. “It’s almost the season for eligible women to be courted and married off and I expect your brother and you to be ready for it.”

“You mean be shown around like show cattle and bought off by the most handsome and entitled bloke that comes by them first?” Sherlock corrects him.

John hides the smile that comes to his lips as he hears Sherlock’s retort, only Sherlock spoke to the king with such a smart tongue.

“Sherlock Holmes, no matter the stick you have up your arse you won’t speak to your father like that.” Mycroft hastily corrects, giving Sherlock a sharp look.

Sherlock returns the look then continues to eat. All the men become quiet, the usual for dinners like this. Just being spent in silence as if all men have never met or have nothing in common to speak of. Really Sherlock had nothing in common with his family to talk about, at least nothing he wouldn’t be judged for.

The silence is suddenly interrupted when Mycroft’s eyes shoot up from his plate with a dark look of hatred. “What is that smell?” He spits out through the food in his mouth.

Both other Holmes look up to Mycroft with questions on their faces and follow his gaze which is directly on John and the young housemaid. Mycroft slams his fists on the table as he stands, his chair rocking behind him as he does.

“What on earth are you doing?” King Siger questions his son.

“Do you not smell that father? Take a moment and really inhale through your nose.” He pauses to breathe in deeply as his father does the same. “That’s the disgusting stench of an intersex sinner.”

John’s world stops as his eyes are met by Mycroft’s piercing gaze. His breath catches in his chest, tightening up his body. How could Mycroft know? He ate his berries today. He took all precautions he always did; how did he know? John felt hot all over, a panic blistering out over his skin in bumps. It made his whole being ache and sweat. He kept as calm as he could, allowing himself to give Mycroft a questioning look.

“One of you is a disgusting sinner,” Mycroft hisses. “A wolf among the sheep, trying to hide away undetected.”

“Don’t accuse them of anything you have no proof of Mycroft.” Sherlock replies.

“I’ll know soon enough,” He stands straight as he grabs a knife in his hand and makes his way around the table to the two who stand side by side. “Hold them.” He demands the doormen, and the two larger men rush over and grab John and the girl, forcing their hands behind their backs, detaining them.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock protests, standing from his seat as the men roughly take ahold of them.

“Hush boy,” The king demands, watching his son with interest.

The eldest Holmes makes his way to John and the girl, spinning the sharp knife around in his fingers with such expertise, slipping it between every finger without even a scratch. He was one of the best knife throwers this world has ever seen, giving him an expert hand at anything sharp.

“Turn them around, bend them over,” He demanded, his eyes swirling with dark wonder.

The doormen do as they are instructed, forcing both John and the girl to face them and throwing them to bend over, exposing their bums to the table. The maid is crying, from humiliation John could only assume. He felt as if he wanted to cry as well, but his mind was too panicked to do anything but pant. The doormen take ahold of each of their arms, painfully pulling them far up their backs, gaining a pained gasp from either person.

“Mycroft stop this! It’s unnecessary!” Sherlock protests once more, cheeks red.

“Is it?” Mycroft snidely replies, smirking at his brother before standing directly behind the girl. His long fingers trace down her spine and to the hem of her skirt. His eyes were ablaze with an insane look, one only bloodthirsty and evil. The eldest Holmes boy was known for walking in his father’s footsteps like that.

Mycroft ran the blade of his knife over the soft black fabric on the back of her dress and in one twist of his arm her dress was split in two, falling off her like a leaf from a tree, exposing her and her undergarments to all the men in the room. She cried harder, begging the men to let her go, but she didn’t fight.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock growls, but his second protest falls on deaf ears.

Mycroft gives off a soft chuckle as he waves his knife over the back of her panties, causing her to flinch from the cold metal on her skin. He swipes the knife down, shredding her panties in two, making them fall around her ankles. And there she was, fully naked in front of a room of men, bent over and exposed like a bitch to be bred. And she was exactly what Mycroft had accused her of - for mixed between her legs was both male and female genitals. Her vagina bleeds, dribbling down her thigh and to her toes. She’s on her period just as John is. This is probably one of her first and she didn’t have the knowledge of the berries to protect her like John did.

“Putrid.” Mycroft hisses through clenched teeth, making it seem if he opened his mouth, he’d lose the dinner he’d just eaten. He adverts his eyes and looks to Sherlock.

“What do you have to say about _that_?” He barks. “This witch has made her way into our kingdom. She’s tainted our home with her powers of lust and temptation.”

“No!” She cries. “I haven’t, I only work to have a place to live. Please you must trust me I haven’t done anything. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Mycroft turns back to her and walks to her side, kneeling to level his face with hers. He grabs her jaw painfully, forcing her to look at him. John’s never seen Mycroft look so…. insane.

“I trust you,” He whispers, offering her a soft smile.

She blinks at him, overcome by confusion with his sudden soft and caring reply.

“I trust that you’ll run about this kingdom tarnishing our name and our men as you go. You are a harlot that has no other plans than to use your body to lure in good men and fill this world with more of your scum. I trust that you are filth that wonders this earth with only a need to breed and eat, like a pig. Though, they have more value than you’ll ever have.”

Before anyone can further protest to his words, his knife is against the girl’s neck and in one swift movement, her neck is slit open, spilling blood all over the floor. The girl instantly crumbles to the floor, gurgling as the blood fills her throat. As soon as her body hits the ground, she’s dead, bathing in her own blood.

“Now,” Mycroft stands, tossing the bloody knife on top of the girl’s limp body. “Let us finish dinner.”


	11. Soothed

“John? My boy,” Mrs. Hudson sinks to her knees beside John and wraps him in her arms, comforting and warm just as John needed in this moment.

He found himself curled up in the kitchen, on the floor next to the warmth of the fireplace. He had to rush to Mrs. Hudson after what he’d just witnessed. He’d experienced death before while helping Ruth the Nurse mend those injured from battles, but he’d never witnessed anyone be murdered before his eyes. Let alone one of his kind and in such a brutal way. He was absolutely shook to his core and unable to properly process what happened. He stays there on the dirt floor, knees tucked to his chest as he blankly stared at the wall ahead. Mrs. Hudson didn’t speak to him but those couple words as she sit beside him, wrapping him up in a tight embrace. He leaned closer into her arms.

“I’m so sorry you had to witness that,” She finally mutters, fixing the pieces of hair that scatter over his forehead.

“No, Mrs. Hudson. It wasn’t just that. She was intersex…. like me. She died for something she couldn’t control. She was just young.” He felt the ache of tears threaten his eyes but something inside him held them back.

He knew that Sherlock’s family was evil, but he never could fathom what Mycroft did. He was in even more danger now than he’s ever been in before. If Mycroft would have exposed him first, he would be the one with an open neck right now. He looks to the older woman beside him and both exchange a look of understanding and solace.

“You must be extremely careful now. Mycroft won’t take lightly to finding anyone else in his kingdom. Promise me you’ll consistently eat your berries and conceal yourself as you have been. I know how evil that boy can be, I helped raise him. He has every bit of his father in him. But Sherlock? He’s always been very gentle. Mycroft would find birds and shoot them down from the trees, Sherlock would find birds and sing with them outside. Sherlock has never once hurt anyone, I’m glad he’s taken after his mum. He’s the only light in this kingdom….”

**____**

The castle falls into a state of silence after that night, no one spoke of it, no one will. When Sherlock and John met up in his bedroom that night Sherlock offered him an ‘I’m sorry’ but that didn’t buffer the hurt and humiliation he just experienced.

John met up with Carl the next day and they spent the evening together in the woods. Really that’s all John needed was some company of anyone outside of the Holmes men. Though their time was spent in silence it was still soothing. Carl understood the pain in John without even having to speak.

**____**

John didn’t speak to Sherlock after that night, he had no idea what to say. He had to admit it hurt him knowing Sherlock didn’t fight harder for the young girl. But how would he? Really Mycroft had the power in that moment. But Sherlock moved on like it never happened, and John simply could not.

While Sherlock reviewed the estate fairs a couple evenings later, he constantly looked over to John, who stands by the window and watches the rain fall. His eyes were darkened with a lack of sleep and he slumped over as he stood. That cot he sleeps on must be hurting his back.

“If you’d like you can rest on my bed. I am in no need of you at the moment. You look tired.” Sherlock offered.

John looks over to Sherlock. “No, I assure you I’m fine.”

“You may be able to fool my father, but you can’t fool me. You are haunted by that night and won’t sleep because of it. Not only that but that cot is a killer to your back. Please rest on my bed.”

John chewed at his lip, on the corner where a pit has formed from gnawing on it the past days. “I’m fine.”

Sherlock places the piece of paper in his hand down and swivels in his chair to look at John. “You are most certainly not fine. You are haunted by that night. For reasons outside of watching a girl die. You’ve seen death before while helping the nurse with patients and some of those patients didn’t make it, yet this death is hitting you harder. You had no connection to this girl, so it wasn’t sentiment. It was something deeper, a connection between the two of you that was unspoken.” He reads John like an open book.

John stares at Sherlock, not sure how to respond to his being able to read him like that. No one has ever been able to just tell him exactly what he was feeling. Sherlock’s eyes narrow in thought before he tilts his head at John. “Did you have pity for her because she was intersex?”

His words are a sharp thorn to John’s ears. He never thought he’d hear Sherlock say exactly what he was. Intersex. He says it so calmly like that exact word didn’t throw his brother into a fit of murderous rage just nights before.

“It is a dangerous world to be intersex in,” Sherlock admits. “She certainly didn’t deserve what she got that night, John, I know that. What someone has between their legs doesn’t define who they are as a person. None of us were the wiser before he ripped her clothes off. We would never had known otherwise what she was baring under her skirt. And really what does it matter? I think this whole intersex witch thing is nonsense. The biology of an intersex person isn’t much different than any other sex. They may have a pheromone but that is only to attract men and mate, that is one of their key purposes but that isn’t their _only_ purpose. I know some of that pheromone can tempt a man, but it’s the man who lets himself be tempted that is so drawn in. That’s why my brother was so upset. He let his guard down to be tempted and that’s why he smelled her before my father or me. She was a kind girl, John. And if I had it my way anyone no matter the sex would be safe in my kingdom. It’s all fine.”

 _It’s all fine._ The words John spoke to him those nights ago about his own sexuality.

John stared at Sherlock. He just accepted John for what he was without even knowing it. Sherlock Holmes accepted him. His Prince. John offered Sherlock a soft smile. “Thank you.” He muttered before going to the bed and laying down.

Sherlock’s words were a soothing oil to John’s open wounds, and he was finally able to get some sleep after. Laying in the crook of the bed where Sherlock slept every night. It seeped with the smell of him and at this point, it was such a comforting smell. John buried his face in Sherlock’s pillow and almost instantly drifted off to sleep, knowing Sherlock would be right there to help him if he’d need it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe we are nearing the end of this little fic!  
> As always thanks for the constant love and support!  
> \- K


	12. Creek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all!   
> As always thanks for the constant love and support!  
> \- K

After Sherlock and John spoke that night both men had an understanding between them. Sherlock would never judge John and John him. It was a nice feeling, finally being able to trust Sherlock like he once did as a child. John spent most of the next few weeks beside Sherlock and no one else. Every evening they’d spend remembering the times they shared as kids. Sherlock would even share some laughs with the blonde at the thought of some memories. John never wanted to go back to how estranged they were before, he loved his new Prince and honored him even more.

**____**

One evening after John assumed Sherlock had fallen asleep, he snuck out, attempting to be as quiet as he could to not wake up Sherlock – but Sherlock knew, and he followed him.

The blonde made his way outside, past the pastures and fields of wheat to the creek behind a shade of trees. The moon was mostly gone in its phase, just a crescent lighting the sky. The darkness made it hard to follow behind the blonde, but Sherlock knew the territory like the back of his hand and mapped it all out in his mind. He also knew John liked this creek and would go there to think when he needed to. The sound of water slipping over the rocks and trickling between logs and sticks that had fallen in was soothing to John.

Luckily, the weather was starting to warm up as winter passed and it was nice enough outside to enjoy the walk without freezing. John took a seat at the opening of the creek, where the water laps over the dirt repeatedly. He pulled his shoes off and slipped his toes into the cool water; he takes in a deep breath. He let his head fall into his palms, sliding his fingers into the soft blonde white of his hair and stopping at the base. He was distraught and Sherlock hadn’t known why. All day he was very distant, though the past weeks he’s been quite the opposite.

John lifted his head to the sky, falling back into the grass behind him. The night sky was clear and sparkling with stars. They danced in their own light, not a worry or demand, just knowing they must shine. The breeze of the night smelled like rain that would approach within the next few hours. The musty scent of rain was calming, John took another deep breath.

Sherlock approached John slowly as to not startle him. “John?” He whispered, his hands stuffed in his jacket pocket to keep them warm.

John sat up from his spot and squinted his eyes to try and see in the darkness, though he already knew who it was. “Sherlock? Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Sherlock stated as he took a seat next to John, pulling his boots off.

John watched as Sherlock slipped his own feet into the pool of water with a soft gasp as the cool water shocks his feet. John sighs, taking in the sounds of the creek and their breaths intertwining.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asks, glancing over to John.

“Why do you think….” He trails off. He knew Sherlock was no idiot. “It’s nothing you need be concerned with.”

“If I weren’t concerned do you honestly believe I’d be here in the middle of the night with my feet in a creek with bacteria I cannot even fathom eating at my toes?”

John lets out a soft chuckle, but it quickly falls flat. “It’s Carl.” John adjusts where he sits, burying his fingers in the dirt below him. “I found him today in the stables with a maid….”

Sherlock nods, his curls falling into his face as a breeze brushes by both men, it was a cool gust but still pleasant.

“After he got off her, he hurriedly dressed himself and tried to explain to me that it wasn’t what it seemed. That him fucking her wasn’t anything like it seemed.” John scoffed bitterly. “But it was and then he told me he wouldn’t have to fuck others if I’d just given myself to him. But it didn’t matter because he doesn’t know why he even had feelings for me in the first place.” He swallows and stops.

Sherlock looks to John with soft eyes – understanding. “Go on,”

John shakes his head, plucking the rocks out of the dirt under him aimlessly and tossing them into the creek. “He claims he’s disgusted in himself that he gave into temptation with another man. That he would never dream of being homosexual and never really wanted me in the first place. The thought alone revolts him…. though he was just so charming to me the other day….” John’s voice shakes some with each word.

A quiet settle over them, it was nice to just say nothing for a while, enjoying the sound of nature and the company of his Prince. A quiet understanding without having to talk at all. When Sherlock does speak his voice is low and even.

“He is only trying to cover his tracks. It’s easier for humans to make up lies to cover over the truth more times than not. He loved you John. But you found his lie that day in the stable and he had to make you feel bad about yourself so he could feel okay about himself. Human error really. Not only that but I had saw him speaking with my brother the other day and who knows what sort of nonsense Mycroft filled his head with.”

John’s fists clench by his side as Sherlock brings up Mycroft. That bastard.

“John,” Sherlock’s hand is suddenly over John’s, draping over it with protection and warmth. “You have to understand that it’s not your fault. He chose his own path. He was a liar and rake as it was, you deserve better….so much better.” He squeezes John’s hand gently.

Sherlock’s fingers perfectly encase John’s own, making them seem so small. Sherlock always had lanky fingers that were soft and curvy, whereas John had smaller fingers but thicker, worn from work in the castle. He looks over to Sherlock’s hand on his own and his heart nearly stopped when he saw the gold ring on Sherlock’s pinky. The same ring that matches the one he had on the opposite hand.

“That’s the ring,” John’s words were full of bewilderment. “You have it still?”

“Of course, I do. Why would I ever get rid of it? It was a lot of money,” He smirks at him and John gives him a soft laugh in reply. “I cherish this ring and your own. Honestly, I’m honored you still have yours and wear it as often as you do.”

John lifts the hand that bears his own ring and shows Sherlock, wiggling his fingers around. Sherlock gently takes his hand and rolls the ring around on John’s finger in small circles. He then gently pulls John’s hand to his lips and places a gentle kiss on the face of the ring. John was shocked by this simple act of affection from Sherlock. He keeps his lips pressed to the ring for a long moment, his eyes peering to John through dark curls.

“You are a gem, John.” He breathes against John’s fingers. “One I’m never willing to lose as easily as Carl did. You will always be safe with me; I promise you that.”

John’s eyes shift between Sherlock’s as he pulls his lips away from the cool metal of the ring and intertwines their fingers, palms pressed together flush. John knew his hands were clammy against Sherlock's own, really, he never once imagined Sherlock would speak to him like this, let alone hold him so tenderly. He was speechless.

“I’m not worth protecting,” John tells Sherlock.

“That’s what you believe. However, I care deeply for you, John Watson, and you will always be mine.” The last word – _mine_. So possessive and assertive. John’s body shook with an ache all over and it settled in his core.

Sherlock reached up with his free hand, brushing the pad of his thumb over the soft skin across John’s cheekbone, right below his eye. He closed his eyes and cherished the touch; his skin was so cold from the night air that the touch was electric on his skin. Once he opened his eyes again they were met by the light blue mist that was Sherlock’s eyes which were glued to his in an intense stare.

“I may kiss you,” Sherlock whispers, inching ever closer.

“I may let you.” He replies and with that permission Sherlock’s lips met his.

Electric shockwaves rattle John’s body, his nerve endings set ablaze like the stars that shine above. Every inch of him sang a song of warmth and security. Sherlock’s lips move expertly against John’s own, navigating like a map he’s explored before. John could feel his own lips part as he gasps in a breath, inhaling every intense smell of Sherlock. In his mouth Sherlock’s tongue grazes past his teeth, pressing assertively against his own tongue. Sherlock tasted sweet, like a fine pastry with berries. A taste John didn’t want to quickly forget or lose. Sherlock pulls John into his lap and presses their chests together, allowing the darkness to blanket over them while their hearts and minds were ablaze with light.

In the distance, someone watches. Documenting every action and movement of the two men. Without waiting for anymore to happen they turn on their heels, making their way back to the castle with a report for the king about his youngest son and the Page Boy.


	13. Again

**Seven Years Earlier:**

The eldest Holmes brother sat at his desk, studying the stacks of papers ahead of him. Merlin had the hardest job among the brothers seeing as he was nineteen now, he had to be ready to take over the throne anytime his father deemed fit. He spent many of his days at his desk, rubbing his temples to soothe the constant headaches he fought. Really, he never got a break from the endless paperwork. He sat back in his chair and sighed, peering out the window next to him. Sherlock and John play in the courtyard, chasing each other around in a game of tag. Merlin loved seeing his little brother run around careless, he hoped one day Sherlock could run away from this place, he knew Sherlock wasn’t fit for a royal life. His youngest brother was smarter than any human he’d ever met, and he was only twelve. He had so much more ready for him in life and Merlin would make sure Sherlock was free when he became king.

Merlin really was the perfect combination of his father and mother when it came to looks. His hair was a dark ink black color with a gentle wave down to the base of each follicle. He liked to have his hair longer so he could pull it back into a small knot on his head if ever he needed to. It was very thick, but he managed it perfectly, so it kept shiny and healthy. Their mother loved to run her fingers through it when he was little, she was the one who let him grow it out when he was younger and he'd never cut it short since. Though it only was down to his ears, it was much longer than his other siblings. His eyes were a deep brown matching his fathers, dark but washed with sparks of green, giving them much more of a gentle glisten than father. Though his vision wasn’t great, so he had to use his spectacles to see his paperwork ahead of him. He had an exceedingly long face with strong structure, from cheekbones to chin. His jawline wasn’t as pronounced as much of his family, but he had it covered in facial hair most times so it was hard to tell. A dark short beard and mustache always fit him best and made his long hair not look so out of place, Mycroft was always jealous that he could grow such dense facial hair. He really was so handsome in his own way, not easily conforming to what a normal ‘prince’ would be required to look like. He didn’t conform to much of anything really.

Sherlock’s laughs from outside drift into his open window with the wind and fill his ears with childish song. It really was a soothing tune after all this work. There was a knock at the door and Mycroft welcomed himself into the room, sauntering over to Merlin.

“Going over our next military strategy?” He asks his brother, picking up a letter and peering over it.

“As it seems. It’s all I do anymore.” Merlin sighs, slumping in his chair. His voice was a deep baritone sound, it has been deep since he turned fifteen.

“Well, if you’d like to pass down some duties to me, I’d be happy to take them on.” Mycroft offered, tossing the letter in the air and watching it float to the wood desk below.

“I have it handled, thank you Mycroft. You are excused. I have much work to be done.” He gives Mycroft a brief smile before returning his eyes to the papers.

Mycroft huffs, jaw clenching. Merlin never trusted him to help with any work and Mycroft never understood why. He knew he’d be much better at ruling over this kingdom than Merlin ever would, so why couldn’t he be next in line for the throne? Merlin was too caring like mother. He cared too much for people and not about the real problems ahead of the Holmes family.

“Why does father trust you so much anyway?” Mycroft asks, narrowing his eyes.

Merlin frowns and looks to his brother. “Pardon?”

“You heard me,” Mycroft replies. “Why does he trust you so much? Is it because he really doesn’t know you like he believes he does?”

“Oh, and you know me better than my own father?” Merlin chuckles at the nonsense of his brother.

“I know what you hide between your legs.” Mycroft’s words cut through the air like a bird in the sky – swift and quick.

Merlin slowly blinks at his brother, his face full of confusion. “What are you on about, Mycroft?”

“I’m speaking of you being intersex.” Mycroft spits out the last word. “The fact that mummy hid you away from father so he would never know. That she changed your linins as a baby so father and the maids wouldn’t find out. That she had your periods hidden away from us. That’s why you always insist on growing your facial hair, because if you didn’t your longer hair would make you feminine and she told you that. She and you are filthy _liars_.”

“Mycroft, I think you’ve fully lost it now,” His brows knit together in a heavy frown before he looks back at his paperwork. “You may leave if you are just going to accuse me of something you have no proof of.”

Mycroft lets out a low chuckle, his chocolate brown eyes swirl with something evil. “Oh, I know, brother. I’ve talked to your Page Boy. The one who bathes you? Have you wondered where he has escaped to these last few days? I paid him to give me information on you and he ran with the money to go be with his family. He told me all your little secrets. It really is baffling how sentiment in people can show just how unfaithful they are.”

Merlin pauses writing to peer back up to his brother. “Why on earth would you do that?”

“Because you are in my way. If I get rid of you, I get next in line for the throne. I will rule this kingdom better than you ever could. Not to mention you are illegally on these castle grounds. You know father has a strict rule forbidding any intersex to be in this kingdom, let alone alive to experience it.”

“Mycroft you are talking insane. Just leave and we can discuss more later. I’m sure I can find more duties for you to accomplish if that’s what you want.”

Mycroft growls. “No, that’s not what I want.” With those simple words he swipes the letter opener from his brothers’ desk and in a swift movement is leaping on top of him, knocking him over in his chair. Merlin’s back slams into the wood floor and the impact knocks the breath from his lungs. He reaches up to throw Mycroft off of him, but Mycroft deflects it, slashing Merlin’s arm in the process. Merlin doesn’t as much as flinch at the slice down his arm as he spins off the floor, flipping Mycroft over.

“Stop Mycroft!” He demands, breathless as he scrambles to get up, but Mycroft grabs his leg and yanks him down, forcing his body to slam back into the floor.

Mycroft climbs on top of his brother, pinning his arms down with his knees. When Mycroft wanted, he was ungodly strong, even more than his older brother who was considerably bigger than him.

Merlin struggles under Mycroft but to no avail, the brunette has him completely pinned. “You won’t rule over this kingdom when you are a sinner in human clothing. You are dirt and sewage. I’ve waited many years for the perfect time, Merlin. The throne will be rightfully mine as it always should have been. Not some disgusting bitch of a man.”

Mycroft lifts the letter opener in his hand and plunges it deep into his brother’s chest, forcing it past bone and organs. The feeling of the blade resisting as it hit the hard shell of bone in his brother’s chest is a feeling he’d never experienced. It was wonderful. He pulls the blade out and watches his brother as he continues to struggle, coughing. He thrusts the blade back into his chest, again and again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

He holds Merlin’s face with a tight grip as he drifts in and out of consciousness. His lips pour blood, and he gurgles with every breath. He coughs, splashing Mycroft’s face with the iron must of blood. Even the edges of his eyes leak red, almost like he’s crying with the blood escaping his body. It gives Mycroft a strange feeling of ecstasy to see his brother’s life slipping from his eyes. He is sure to bend in close to Merlin as he takes his last breaths, speaking directly next to his ear.

“I will make sure your name is forgotten and your kind are exterminated, I promise you that, my brother.”

He stands, towering over Merlin. His brother seizes, his body panicking as it loses blood and chokes him with it. Mycroft tosses the opener on the floor and exits the room, allowing his brother to lay there for a few more minutes before he slips away.

“Tell father it is done,” Mycroft demands a guard, wiping the blood from his hands with a rag he shoved in his back pocket before he entered Merlin’s room. He had every intention to do what he did to his brother when he walked in there. He was relieved it was over. Father will be so proud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you guys think of that plot twist huh?  
> Also, did I explain how Merlin looked pretty well? I hope you all could imagine him in your own ways.  
> As always thanks for the love and support.  
> \- K


	14. Betrayed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read notes at the end of the story. I'll need your input!   
> Thanks  
> \- K

John takes the quiet time of this day by himself to arrange Sherlock’s desk. He knew better than to move too much since Sherlock always had his things where he wanted them. But with Sherlock out observing the annual Knight Choosing Ceremony with Mycroft he had time to be alone and clean spots of Sherlock’s quarters that he never would let a maid touch. It’s been days since he and Sherlock spent the entire night by the creek in each other’s arms, sharing memories and deep kisses. He longed for the next day they’d get to sneak away and do it again, but Sherlock had been so busy with the set up of the ceremony that they hadn’t seen a lot of each other in the meantime.

He runs his fingers over the arms of the chair Sherlock sat in most days, pressing his fingers into the arched ridges lining the sides. It was worn in the middle, bowing down some where he’d always put his elbows when thinking. He told him that this was once Merlin’s study chair and desk and he refused to have it tossed away as most of Merlin’s other belongings were. This was one of the only things Sherlock fought to keep. He acted as if the chair helped him think clearer, but John knew he was too brilliant to believe something like that. He wished he had gotten to know Merlin better but from the brief year that he got to spend with him he knew he was an amazing man. He’d always take time out of his studies to come down and play with Sherlock, chasing him around the courtyard or carrying him through the air like a bird. Sherlock always wore the widest smile when with him. What would Merlin think now? Would he be proud of what Sherlock has now become?

There was a gentle knock at the door before Molly slips into the room, offering John a gentle smile. “Hello John,” She greets. “What are you doing?”

John drifts his fingers back up the glossy wood of the chair. “Just arranging Sherlock’s study some.”

“He normally doesn’t like people touching his things.” She states, brows knitting together.

“Yes, but I figured since he’s not here I’d just clear it up some so he can make sense of all these notes he’s made.” He chuckles, resting his other hand on the notes he’s made into a neat stack. Once he peers back up at Molly, he notices her features stay stiff. “Are you okay?”

“I saw you two last night,” She blurts out, folding her fingers together in front of her. “At the creek. Kissing. John, you do know how I feel about the Prince….”

John nods. Molly has always had strong feelings towards Sherlock but never once had the courage to tell him how she’d felt, and he was always too oblivious to notice her advances. Not that it’d matter if he did, he wasn’t much interested in women. The hurt on her face at this very moment told John she felt betrayed.

“I’m sorry Molly I -”

“You what?” She snaps, her voice shaking in pain. “You didn’t mean to snog him senseless? You didn’t mean to fill his every thought? He can’t even get any work done because of _you_. You know how the King feels about homosexuality and yet you tempt him into it with your…” She pauses to look him dead in the eye. “ _Temptations_.”

John blinks at her words, his mind full of confusion. “Temptations?”

“Yes, your body tempts him with its scent. Don’t you know that’s the only reason he’s drawn to you? Because of your pheromones? No man in his right mind would jeopardize his spot on the throne for his common slave boy.”

“Molly…” John steps towards her but she only follows by taking a step back, her eyes cast to the floor. “Molly it doesn’t have anything to do with the fact I’m…what I am. He has an interest in me because we…we just match. He soothes my nerves in every way and I him. We connect positively. What does it matter about pheromones? He can only smell those if I am on my period and don’t eat my berries. He loves me outside of that.”

She shakes her head, not taking a single word John says to heart. “I’m sorry John, I can’t let you continue to taint the Prince.”

After those words two Knights step into the room beside her followed by the King. John froze, a flood of panic rolled all over his body.

“Your period hm?” The King’s voice was filled with sarcasm and hatred, painted bright red. “Normal men don’t have periods, do they Page Boy?”

John stands silent, his breaths completely escaping his lungs. Blood has ceased to flow through him, his legs going numb. This was the day he had nightmares about, this very moment he was exposed. And exposed by no other than someone he thought a friend?

“So, I have a harlot in my house all this time and he was serving under my nose for eleven years? Very sly, I must admit. Good catch with the Casper Berries though. You may have just outsmarted me if you didn’t trust so easily. Really that is the downfall of most humans – trust, love, emotions. You trusted Molly and she told me all about you, how does that make you feel?” He smiles, showing off every inch of the dark cyanide that was that sinister smile.

John’s eyes shoot over to Molly whose own chocolate ones meet his before breaking away again. “I had to, John. It’s not healthy for Sherlock to be around you anymore and with you no longer in the picture I’ll get more free time with him.” She admits.

“My son needs to stop filling his head with these homosexual fantasies and start to take his position more seriously. So, if we tell him you ran away and have no intention to return, maybe he will drop this foolish act.”

“He will never believe I’d just run away.” John’s voice is even though he was panicked.

The guards step closer to John, crowding him into a corner. “Oh, he will. Not to mention, with you being intersex and a virgin…” He pauses to catch John’s grimace at the word. “You are worth much money to the King two kingdoms over. He’s much more…loose than we are here. He purchases Intersex for breeding. But you’ve caught his eyes, little Page Boy. He wants you for his next concubine.”

“You don’t know anything about me. You have no idea if I’m a virgin or not. You are insane,” John barks through clenched teeth, widening the gap between them.

“No really I’m not. Do you really think I just kill off all the intersex I find? No no no. I sell them to him, where he uses them as he sees fit. More than likely he kills them off once he’s done with them but that takes the blood from my hands. How do you think I have all the gold in this castle of mine? It’s from selling people like you to the highest bidder. Also, did I not tell you I was going to do so much worse than skin you if I found you lying to me? I think you being sold off and only used for sex for the rest of your life like some breeding bitch will teach you more than some skinning ever could. Will leave more scars, mental scars last longer.” He grins.

He snaps his fingers, and the knights charge for John, each taking an arm and forcing John’s wrists into shackles. They weigh heavy on his arms, cold chain and metal. He fights, kicking the men’s shins, stomping on their feet, even attempting a headbutt but to no avail. The knight to his left uses the rounded butt of his sword to smash it into the back of his head, causing a dark web of pain to wash over the front of John’s vision. He instantly becomes weak, knees giving way to the pain. The knights hold him steady, allowing him to sway as the King saunters over, standing ahead of him. He stops just in front of him and slips his fingers through John’s soft blonde hair, then with a rough grip he forces John’s face up to his. The King’s face was inches from John’s, but he could barely see him with the black splotches that wash over his vision. His body is trying not pass out from the blow.

“I do wish you well with your new master. You will wish you stayed here and kept yourself tucked away. Maybe you shouldn’t have let your little wants and needs overpower your life. Now your life will be hell from here on out, he will make sure of it. You thought it bad here? Oh boy, when he’s done with you, you’ll be nothing but skin and a womb to breed with.” He throws John’s head down and drives John’s face directly into his knee, delivering the final blow that fully knocks John out.

“Take him to the carriage and get him out of here before Sherlock returns.” He demands the knights before turning on his heels and looking at his own Page. “You write a letter and tell King Moriarty that his new pet is on his way.”

And on his way, he was, his life was flipped inside out after this very moment. For he was no longer his own, he was a branded Pet for no other than Jim Moriarty to play with and that was just the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you all think? I've been debating if I should continue this story with a second part or just keep it open ended like this and let you the readers make up an ending as you see fit.  
> Please drop a comment below letting me know if I should continue this fic or leave it open. If I were to continue it it'd probably be quite a bit darker than this fic. Definitely rapey aspects seeing as John is being sold for his body. I don't know how many would be okay with that so that's another reason I hesitate to continue this story. So that's why it's very important for you guys to let me know if I should continue to the next book or not.   
> But for now this is it! Thank you to all who take the time to read this fic, leave kudos and comments. I truly am so appreciative of your time and support. Please be sure to subscribe to me to see further works in the future and the possible continuation of this fic.  
> Until we meet again,  
> Keeps


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